Perception Deception
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: Agent Eppes discovers treachery afoot, and high-ranking officials are implicated. Soon, the Brothers Eppes find themselves on the run and depending only on each other. Posting Ch. 37 of 37; now complete.
1. The Illusion Begins

**Perception Deception**

**a tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

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**Disclaimer:** _(a) a denial or disavowal of legal claim… (b) a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer…_ Definition courtesy Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam Company, Springfield, MA, U.S.A. Copyright 1979. COLLEGIATE is a registered trademark. **Furthermore,** NUMB3RS is a trademark of CBS Studios Inc. TM, © and ® by Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved. _Perception Deception_, a Rabid Raccoons production, is not recommended for young children. This disclaimer applicable to _Perception Deception_ in its entirety. The corporation known as "Rabid Raccoons" further disavows claim to any or all fan fictional works attributed to FraidyCat and/or Serialgal. At this point we also deny any connection to unsolved federal crimes. The compilation of this disclaimer took longer than the story you are about to read.

**A/N:** "Perception Deception" is the mathematical term for an optical illusion...

**.........................................................................**

**Chapter 1: ****The Illusion Begins**

Don reached down with a gloved hand and plucked a splinter of wood from the vic's blonde hair. "You got an evidence bag?" he asked Colby.

"Right here," answered Granger, holding the small bag open while Don dropped the splinter inside. He eyed the shattered wooden baseball bat lying next to the body. "Whaddya wanta bet that this splinter came from that bat?" he deadpanned. He began to seal the evidence bag. "Let's see. Broken bat less than two feet from the body. Busted head on top of said body. Splinter of wood stuck in the congealed blood."

Don suppressed a smile – notwithstanding the defensive responses of detachment and gallows humor that naturally developed after years of police work, it would be inappropriate to grin over a dead body -- concentrating on the vic's youth and former beauty. She had been 16, 17 at the most. Probably her first job, working at the ice cream shop to earn money for a car, or something. Damn shame. "We collect the evidence anyway," he ordered. "Last thing this child's parents need is for a slam-dunk case to be thrown out of court, and their daughter's murderer to walk...just because we got lazy."

Colby shook his head vehemently. "That ain't gonna happen," he retorted. He eyed the bat again. "I'm just thinking I need to go back to the vehicle for a bigger evidence bag."

Don called out to a member of the FBI's Crime Scene Investigation unit. "Andy! You guys got a bag big enough for this bat?"

"Not a problem, boss," Andy responded, not even looking up from the glass display case he was dusting for prints. "Just leave everything to me."

**...................................................................**

Liz and Nikki waited for the distraught mother to blot her eyes with a sodden tissue. "I just don't understand how this could happen," she finally choked out. "Jeanie was a good girl" -- she gulped -- "popular, always had a lot of friends..." Her plaintive gaze traveled from one agent to the other. "Who would do such a horrible thing to a young girl? Was it robbery?"

Nikki shifted her weight to her other leg, standing in the small living room of the cluttered apartment. She shrugged. "We don't know, yet. Other agents are interviewing the manager, but it doesn't look like anything is missing. The till still had cash in it."

Liz shot her a look and reached out to steer the woman toward a lumpy couch. "You should sit down, Ms. Ames," she encouraged gently. "Are you sure there's no-one we can call for you? A friend, or minister?"

"Maybe your daughter's father," Nikki suggested, then hissed when Liz stepped solidly on her foot as well as elbowing her in the ribs as she led Jeanie's mother to a seat.

The woman began to cry, again. She blew her nose into the tissue as she sank down on the couch. "Jeanie... Jeanie's father never knew about her," she confessed. "I found out I was pregnant when I went to the hospital after he b-b-broke my jaw. I never went back to him...didn't even speak to him again."

Nikki sat on the other end of the couch without being invited. "Maybe he found out about her anyway," she mused.

Ms. Ames shook her head. "I don't th-think so. Anyway, he's dead now."

Liz pushed gently. "How did you find that information?"

The woman looked at her for a moment, and then past her to a school photograph of Jeanie that hung on the wall. Her eyes welled with barely suppressed tears. "It-it was in the paper, a few years ago," she shared. "I guess he b-b-beat the woman he finally married, too, and she didn't just leave him. She l-l-locked him in the sauna for a week and b-b-baked him."

She sniffed over Nikki's comment, but Liz still heard. "Damn," Nikki muttered. "Sounds like he would have been good for it, enjoying beating women and all."

Liz glared at her partner. "Nikki," she ordered abruptly, "go out to the car and call this in to David. _Now._"

Nikki looked chagrined. "I just meant..." She stopped talking as the expression on Liz's face darkened. She hung her head as she stood. "My condolences for your loss," she mumbled before she walked out the still-open front door.

Liz watched her leave and sighed. Nikki could be a good investigator, ballsy and fearless. She could also be clueless and brash, which could not only be totally out of place in a situation like this, but also signaled a potential disciplinary problem -- something Don had been dealing with ever since Agent Betancourt joined the team. She refocused her attention on the grieving mother, sitting close to her on the couch. "Please. Let me call someone for you."

Jeanie's mother began to wail in earnest. "I'm alone now," she cried. "Someone stole my baby, and I'm all alone!"

...................................................................

It was a fairly simple interrogation, so Don let Colby and David have at it, and stood watching from behind the one-way glass. The suspect was a 16-year-old kid, and it was all by the book. Granger and Sinclair had gone to his house, talked to his parents, and scheduled a time for the kid to come in with his attorney, who sat next to him now in the interrogation room.

"Like we mentioned at your house," Sinclair was saying now, "you're not being charged with any crime at this time. We just want to talk to you about your girlfriend."

"Jeanie," the boy supplied helpfully.

"Right," Granger responded. "We need to get a better handle on her life." He looked down at his notebook. "Her boss says she worked at the ice cream shop about six months."

The boy nodded. "She has…had…a single mom, so there wasn't a lot of extra money in the house. She wanted to save for a car…" He stopped, cleared his throat, then lifted his chin almost defiantly. "Not like you'd think, though. She wanted to buy her mom something, get Ms. Ames off the bus line."

David smiled. "She sounds like a very special girl."

Her boyfriend nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah, she's great!" He dropped his gaze to the table; his shoulders drooped and his voice lowered. "I mean, she _was_ great. Really pretty, and smart. Took a lot of AP classes."

"How long did you two date?" David asked gently.

Tears welled in the boy's eyes, but his voice remained steady. "Since junior high; 7th grade. Pretty near three years, we been _'steadies'_."

There was silence in the room while Colby looked at his notebook again. He studied it for a while and then purposefully placed it on the table in front of him. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Kind-of strange, then, that she went to the Junior Prom with some other guy, don't you think?"

Don could almost feel the electrical charge in the interrogation room through the glass. The kid jerked his head up, staring at Colby with huge, round eyes. For a moment, the "deer-in-the-headlights" expression reminded Don of Charlie, for some reason, and his mind wandered. That was almost exactly the look on Charlie's face when he told Don that he had asked Amita to marry him, and she had said 'yes'. Don hadn't been able to decide if his little brother could not believe his luck, or had just figured out he was supposed to get married soon. Maybe both.

He shook himself and tuned back into the conversation. The kid was refusing to look at anyone, and speaking defensively to the tabletop. "…me," he was saying. "I _know_ she did. We've talked about going to UCLA together after high school, sharing an apartment in student housing!" He lifted one hand to the table and started outlining circles on the surface. He snickered. "Then the bitch said she didn't think I could get in, just because I flunked a few classes this year." He looked up, defiant again, his formerly wide eyes narrow. "I told her it didn't matter. I knew she was lots smarter than me, and school meant more to her. She could still go to college. We could get a little place off-campus, and I'd just keep working in my uncle's gas station."

Colby waited half a beat. "There was no ring on her finger," he pointed out, "but there was a tan line, like there _had_ been one, for a long time. We thought maybe she just took it off for work – or maybe it was stolen – but her boss told us she just stopped wearing it a few weeks ago."

David's voice was still gentle. "Did Jeanie give the ring back to you, Bob? Did she break things off?"

Bob's face twisted into an ugly mask. "That damn ring cost me almost 100 dollars," he snarled. "I saved every penny I got for birthdays, and Christmas. I collected cans and bottles for recycling. Cleaned my uncle's garage on weekends. Took me over three months to earn enough so that I could buy that for her last year." His voice grew louder in the small room. "_And what does she do?_" he nearly shouted. His attorney placed a hand on his arm, but the teenager shook it off. "_What?_" he repeated. He huffed sarcastically. "Throws it in my face and shows up at the dance with some asshole! Makes sure the whole school knows!"

Don was distracted again by Liz's entrance into the observation room. She offered him a file. "Don, the tech found something on the ice cream shop owner's office computer. Usually it would take Charlie to find this so fast, but the tech said it was a sloppy job that anyone with half a brain should have been able to spot." She grinned sarcastically. "I think that was an insult."

Don opened the file folder to look inside. "What?"

Liz started to explain. "Looks like some kind of electronic funds transfer fraud. This means the shop owner could have been the intended vic all along…" She was interrupted by a loud crash from the other side of the glass. Bob had apparently stood, kicked his chair across the room, and then collapsed onto the floor.

His arms were cradling his head, and he was sobbing, but his muffled words were easy to understand. "…didn't mean it," he was crying. "I only wanted to scare her, but she laughed at me. Laughed!" Another sob tore from his throat.

Don sighed, and closed the file folder. "Nice work, Liz," he said, "although it looks like it's unrelated to this case. I'll pass it on to Wright, see if he wants us to look into it or give it to the Secret Service. Looks to me like we've got our guy."

Liz shook her head in disappointment. "Sixteen-year-olds taking baseball bats to their girlfriends," she observed quietly. "Sometimes, this job sucks."

**………………………………………………**

End, Chapter One


	2. I Thought Charlie Was the Smart One

**Perception Deception**

**a tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 2: ****I Thought Charlie Was the Smart One**

A smile played at Robin's mouth as she watched Don. Using the hunt-and-peck method of keyboarding with astonishing speed, he plunked away at his laptop's keyboard, so engrossed in his task that he did not notice her watching from the other side of the kitchen table. His brows were knit together and there was a scowl creasing his forehead. His jaw worked furiously as he masticated the ever-present gum.

She quietly closed the file folder in front of her and took a sip from a glass of lemonade before she spoke. "I'm sure Charlie would be willing to help you," she finally said.

Don's fingers paused over the keys, and he looked up with slightly glassy eyes. "What?"

She laughed at his consternation, shaking her head a little. "Don't misunderstand me. It's actually quite enjoyable having you spend the evening with me, even if we've both been working. It's just that, whatever you're trying to find, Charlie could probably find it faster. Right?"

To her surprise, his expression darkened. "I'll remind you, Counselor, that I have 15 years' experience as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he replied archly. "I may be capable of conducting an investigation without my baby brother's help!"

Robin lifted an eyebrow. "Of course you are," she agreed. "I hope you know that I would never imply otherwise." She sighed dramatically and looked down at the file folder. "I just thought that if you called Charlie for help, it might free up a little time for...other activities, shall we say?" She raised her eyes and winked. "Since you're here, and all."

Don's expression eased into a grin. "Ms. Brooks. Are you suggesting fraternization?"

Her own expression was coy. "That depends. I have court early in the morning, and I need my rest. This could be a limited time offer."

Don's grin expanded into a smile. "Let me save this document," he implored, looking back at the computer.

Robin stood and took her empty glass to the sink. "What have you been working on all night, anyway?" she questioned.

Don uttered a small sigh as he walked up behind her, his hands encircling her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder. "Just a hunch," he admitted. "That's one reason I don't want to bother Charlie with it." He turned his head and left a trail of kisses up the arch of her neck. "That, and he's a tad preoccupied at the moment."

Robin murmured something unintelligible, closed her eyes and brought a hand up to caress the side of his face. "I forgot. It's finals week, isn't it?"

Don nodded on her shoulder. "I always try to give him a break during finals -- even when he's not completely distracted by planning a wedding at the same time."

Robin laughed and rotated in his arms until she faced him. They exchanged a long and passionate kiss that left them both breathless. "Still, your brother would help you," Robin said when she could speak again. She grasped one of his hands with one of hers and started to lead the way to the bedroom. "You know he would."

Don squeezed her hand as they paused to turn off the light in the kitchen. "I know," he admitted. "I just want to figure out if this is even worth his time." He snorted lightly. "A.D. Wright doesn't think so; he had me hand it over to the Secret Service."

Robin stopped in the hallway and looked at him, curious despite herself. "The SS?"

He nodded. "They're responsible for investigating certain cyber crimes, like electronic funds transfer fraud. One of our lab techs caught something on a computer taken from the crime scene of that murder last week -- the high school girl?"

She nodded. "Such a shame. Turned out to be a jealous boyfriend, didn't it?"

"Right," Don affirmed. "The money fraud had nothing to do with it, which is why Wright told me to pass it on."

Robin frowned. "So? Why not let the Secret Service run with it? Don't you have enough to do?"

Don sighed again, using his free hand to massage his neck. "I've just got a hinky feeling about this. And there was such a small amount of money involved, the SS agent who came to pick up the file as good as told me it was going straight to the back-burner."

Robin looked confused. "If they have the file, what are you working with?"

Don reddened, and looked briefly at his feet. "I may have made a copy," he finally admitted, lifting his gaze to hers again. "On top of that, when I checked the system for similar complaints, I found a bunch of them; all small businesses, small thefts. Not that you heard that."

She rolled her eyes and started tugging him toward the bedroom again. "Absolutely not," she agreed. "Enough work for one night. Take your pants off."

**........................................................................**

Don watched, amused, as Charlie took a large bite out of his pastrami and swiss. The fine lines around his brother's eyes gave testament to the fact that he was tired --not an unexpected state, at the end of another school year. Plus, what a year it had been! Beginning with the clearance issue, followed by Don's stabbing, and Charlie's own head injury sustained during Amita's terrifying kidnapping...Don got tired himself, just thinking about it all. Yet Charlie's entire demeanor was infused by a quiet joy, and peace. Whereas history would have him too tired to eat and probably holed up in the garage as soon as finals were over, this year he was consuming food as if he could actually taste it, and talking to travel agents about the virtues of Tahiti vs. Jamaica, honeymoon-wise.

He finally let go of the sandwich long enough to take a gulp of his soda. His brow furrowed as he looked at Don over the rim of the glass, and he took a deep breath when he replaced it on the table. "What?" he asked.

Don smirked, picking up a pickle spear and shaking it in Charlie's direction. "Nothing, dude. It's just nice to see you so -- happy." He pried open his own turkey sandwich and added the pickle spear to those already inside. "I'd ask what you're going to do this summer, but smart money already knows the answer."

Charlie blushed slightly, watching Don try to shove half of his sandwich into his mouth at one time. "I'm just taking a few days before I really get into some research. I'd like to finish up the cognitive emergence work. I need to look at everything I have; decide if it's enough for a book, or if I should just settle for a series of papers." Still chewing on a mouthful of sandwich, Don just raised his eyebrows and waggled his fingers at Charlie. Surprisingly enough, given all the years of misunderstanding between them, Charlie understood that right away. "I want to get married sooner, rather than later -- hell, I'd fly to Vegas with Amita tomorrow if I could talk her into it -- but she wants to take her time."

Don swallowed. "She's not having second thoughts?"

Charlie's curls shook with conviction. "No. Oh, no, it's not that. It's not even so much the girl thing; you know, fulfilling childhood wedding fantasies. She just wants to make sure her parents can attend. I'm pushing for holiday break in December, but she says if we wait until June, we can have a longer honeymoon." Charlie sighed and full wattage wounded puppy eyes accosted Don. "Another whole year!"

Don smiled. "Come on, Buddy; it won't be that bad. It's not as if she doesn't already as good as live at the Craftsman! Once school starts again, the two of you will be so busy the time will go by before you know it."

Charlie smiled. "I'm counting on that. At least, I think I managed to convince Amita of it. Even if we wait a year, we should do the lion's share of the planning this summer, while we have the time."

"Makes sense to me," Don agreed. "Has she talked to her parents, yet?"

Charlie started to look a little nervous. "Actually, she already had plans to meet them in London for a short reunion soon. Sanjay and Tapti will be attending a financial caucus there. Since Amita wouldn't be teaching, they talked her into meeting them for a week." He cleared his throat, taking another quick gulp of soda. "I was invited as well, but she wants some time alone with them to break the news. I hope they're happy about it."

He was starting to look slightly ill, and Don smiled reassuringly. "How could they not be?" he asked jovially, then tried to change the subject quickly. "Amita will be home in time for Dad's 4th of July barbecue, won't she?"

Charlie smiled and rolled his eyes a little. "Oh, yeah; not that it matters. Dad decided he couldn't wait that long for an engagement party barbecue." He shook his head and grinned sheepishly. "He's calling it a 'beginning of summer bash', and inviting everyone. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it yet – I know he's talked to Colby and David. He's going all-out. Amita and I are trying to convince him not to hire a band." Don laughed, and Charlie picked up his sandwich again. "So how're things going with you? Any cases you'd like me to look at?"

Don waited until the sandwich was firmly in Charlie's mouth before he answered. "Actually," he said, "I've been using one of your basic search algorithms on a little project of my own. As part of another case, we found evidence of a small electronic theft. When I checked the system, I found more of them, and when I applied your algorithm, I found more yet."

Charlie looked interested. "I could design something more specific..." he began, but Don interrupted him.

"No, Charlie. I'm doing this more or less on my own. As it is, I'm depending on applications you designed in the first place." He smiled so that Charlie knew he wasn't being rejected. "Just keep showing up at the office and taking me to lunch," he suggested. "The best way for you to help me is to be my brother for a while, without either of us having an ulterior motive."

When Charlie reddened furiously, Don at first assumed that he was embarrassed by Don's admittedly uncharacteristic sentiment. He started to feel a little discomfort himself. Then Charlie dropped his sandwich on his plate, and a gob of mustard shot out the side and landed on the back of Don's hand. "Shit," Charlie protested. "I was going to ask you to be my best man, but now I feel like I shouldn't bring it up."

Don let loose a burst of laughter so loud that other diners turned to look at them. He absently wiped at the back of his hand with a napkin. "You little weasel," he replied fondly. "I dare you -- just try to get out of it now!"

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The man wasn't expecting anyone, and was a little surprised when his houseman notified him over the intercom that his accountant was making an unannounced visit. He wasn't particularly busy, but he sighed loudly to indicate his displeasure anyway. "Send him ahead," he finally said. He was making a show of organizing the papers on top of his desk when Davis entered.

"I apologize for interrupting," said the CPA a tad nervously. "I think there's something you should know."

The man regarded Davis with cool disdain. "One usually arranges an appointment for that sort of thing."

Davis shifted from one foot to the other. "Again, I apologize," he repeated. "I hope you know that I would never just...appear uninvited...like this, unless I felt it was absolutely necessary."

The man waved an impatient hand. "Well? What is it?"

Davis launched right into it. "The IT man was performing some routine maintenance this morning. Someone has been looking into the financial affairs at ABC industries, specifically the dummy electronic theft we set up as an indicator. In addition, whoever it is has found some of the other businesses you've hit. There's no sign that a connection has been made to you, but there is activity."

The man stiffened in his leather chair. "I beg your pardon?" Davis knew that his employer had heard him, and didn't answer until his boss further demanded, "Who? Can this activity be traced?"

Davis smiled. "Our IT man is very good; this is why I insisted that you spend the money for top personnel. He was able to grab an IP address. Our sources at the justice department tracked down the computer."

The man looked impressed. "Be sure that everyone involved receives a handsome cash bonus," he instructed, "yourself included, of course. What asinine fool has his nose in my business now?"

The smile became a sneer. "Don Eppes, sir."

Complete silence greeted his announcement. Eventually, the man stood behind his giant oak desk. "The F.B.I?"

Davis shook his head. "I can't be sure at this time, but I don't think so. The IP address is for Eppes' personal computer, and most of the activity is taking place during the evenings. Off-hours, as it were."

The man swore, picked up a crystal paperweight and squeezed the weight so hard Davis began to wonder if it would shatter. "Get our contact in the justice department to find out for sure whether this is an official inquiry. Even if if's not – especially if it's not -- get Mace on it right away," he ordered, referring to his head of security. "Find out what Eppes is up to. I want listening devices, a GPS on his vehicle, everything." His voice was rising in affronted anger. "_Everything_, do you hear me?" He placed his hands on his hips. "What about that _'genius'_ brother of his? Is he in the middle of this as well?"

Davis shrugged. "There is no evidence of that at this time," he answered.

The man made a sudden decision. "You know what?" he asked. "I don't really give a shit. I don't trust that little asshole after what he did to me two years ago. Tell Teddy to monitor them both."

Davis smiled. "As you wish, sir."

He stepped out of the room and J. Everett Tuttle sank into the seat behind his desk, frowning. At length, he reached for his cell phone, hit speed dial, and as soon as it was answered, spoke.

"We have a problem."

**……………………………………….**

End, Chapter 2


	3. The More I Know, The Less I Understand

**Perception Deception**

**a tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter ****3: ****"The More I Know, the Less I Understand****"**

Don paused at the door of Wright's office, wondering for a moment if what he was about to do was actually wise. He'd be admitting to accessing at least one file that was no longer property of the FBI. Not that agents weren't allowed to access data in other law enforcement agencies, but usually that was done via formal request, so the holder of the information knew it was being accessed, and had a chance to question the reason for it. Don hadn't actually bothered with that – until now.

He knocked lightly on Wright's door even though he had an appointment and the receptionist had told him Wright was expecting him, and heard Wright's "Come in," through the closed door. He pushed it open, and strode into the room with purpose, shutting the door behind him. He needed to look confident if he was to sell this successfully.

"Thanks for seeing me."

Wright waved a hand, offering a chair, and Don took one across the desk from him. "What's on your mind, agent?"

Don got straight to the point. "Sir, do you remember the electronic theft issue we uncovered during the Jeanie Ames murder?"

Wright raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I instructed you to turn it over to the Secret Service. Electronic theft _is_ their domain."

"Yes, sir, and I ordinarily agree, but something didn't sit right with me – the amount was so small, it made me wonder why anyone would bother. I, uh, spent a little time on it myself," Don replied, and added hastily, "on my own time."

Wright looked less than impressed. "And?"

"I found several other instances of electronic theft at small businesses – many in L.A., but they look like they're all up and down the West Coast – and all in amounts too small to generate much interest. They may or may or may not be related, but I think it's significant enough that it bears looking into. I'd like to take some of the individual cases back from SS, and see if we can make a connection."

Wright pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "I can see your point. I can't imagine the SS is spending much time on cases so small, but if they're related… Okay, let me run that past Montague."

Don nodded, appreciatively. James Montague was the FBI West Coast Regional Director, and would have both the clout and the jurisdiction to make the request. He rose. "Thank you, sir."

Wright nodded, with a slight smile, as Don turned toward the door. "Don't mention it. And agent?" Don turned to back to him with a questioning look, as Wright continued with a dry smile. "Maybe you should consider getting a life."

Don grinned back at him. "Yes, sir. I'll have to think about that."

Wright kept his smile, but his eyes turned serious. "You should do more than think, agent. Life is short. You should know that better than anyone."

**………………………………………………………….**

It didn't take long for the answer to come through. Don had just gotten his second cup of coffee and was headed toward the conference room for a meeting, when his phone rang, and he detoured to answer it. Wright's voice came over the line.

"I got an answer from Montague," he said abruptly. "He told me in no uncertain terms that you were to drop your investigation."

Don frowned. "Did he say why?"

"Not exactly," responded Wright, "but he didn't sound happy. He said we have enough things to do around here without chasing other agencies' cases. He said he'd point out the possible connection to the Secret Service, and have them take it from here."

"I don't see what his beef is," argued Don. "If we solved it, it would look good for us, and it's not like we're behind on our own cases."

Wright's voice grew sharper, tinged with impatience. "Look, Don, we appreciate the persistence, but just drop it, okay? That's a direct order from Montague."

Don's eyebrows rose in surprise. "He said that? _'Direct order_?'"

"Yes." Wright's response was curt. "I'll let you know if I hear anything on it from the SS."

The line clicked as Wright broke the connection, and Don stared at the receiver for a minute, frowning.

"Coming?" said David Sinclair, as he bustled past Don's desk for the conference room.

Don blinked and looked up at him. "Yeah," he muttered, hung up the phone, and fell in behind David, still frowning.

**……………………………………..**

Alan smiled as he looked through the kitchen window while he picked up a bowl of salad from the counter. Charlie and Amita stood out in the yard, both of them dressed casually but just a bit nicer than normal for a picnic, waiting to greet the guests. At least, Charlie looked a bit neater than normal, he corrected himself – Amita always managed to look good, even in sweatpants and a T-shirt. His son was wearing clothes that were less baggy than his usual mode of dress; a pair of khaki pants and a pressed light blue buttoned shirt, and Amita appeared demure, and as always, beautiful, in a floral print cotton sundress. They smiled at each other, the picture of a happy couple, and Alan smiled himself in response, a bit dreamily. Things had certainly looked up in recent weeks, he thought to himself. He'd gone from nearly losing a son to gaining a daughter. One didn't need a good reason for a kick-off-the-summer barbecue, but it made a good venue for officially announcing Charlie and Amita's engagement.

He bustled out from the kitchen with the salad, noting as he set it on the table that others were arriving. Don and Robin were ambling in – together – he noted with satisfaction, and they looked every bit as much of a couple as Charlie and Amita. Colby Granger and David Sinclair were right behind them, and the sight of their broad shoulders made him mentally congratulate himself for deciding to order some extra steaks.

Another couple of trips to the kitchen, and he stepped forward to greet the guests himself. Several others had shown up; some colleagues of Charlie's and Amita's, including Larry Fleinhardt, Charlie's close friend and mentor, and Ray Galuski, an engineering professor at CalSci, with whom Alan had become friends, himself. More of the agents arrived – Liz Warner, and the new agent, Nikki Betancourt; well, not so new, Alan thought, she'd been there almost a year, but he hadn't gotten to know her as well as the others yet. Colby and David in particular were like family, and Alan stepped up to them first, noting that they had beers in their hands. Charlie was being the dutiful host, greeting the guests with Amita, making sure they had drinks. Alan chatted for a moment with Colby and David, and then let them know that there were appetizers and crudités available, smiling to himself as they politely thanked him, and made a beeline for the table. He turned just in time to see Charlie and Amita glance at each other, and the tenderness in their eyes and the sheer happiness in their smiles made his heart fill; for a moment, all he could do was stand and watch them. Then he took a deep contented breath, and headed for a beer of his own.

Colby met him at the cooler, and Alan handed him another beer, snagged one for himself, then glanced quickly behind him to make sure that Robin, Liz, and Amita, who were all drinking wine, had some in their glasses. He followed Colby, who was ambling toward the group, and as he joined them, Don put his arm around Robin, and lifted his beer toward Charlie and Amita. "Here's to the happy couple," he said, and the group joined in the toast as Charlie beamed and Amita smiled and blushed.

Colby grinned mischievously at Don. "You work it right; you guys could make it a double wedding."

Robin, who was usually unflappable, blushed furiously at that, and the group laughed at the look on her face, and on Don's; his mouth made a perfect 'O' for a moment, then they both smiled and joined in the laughter. Colby's comment had set off a round of ribbing and side conversations, and the attention turned away from Don and Robin, but Alan noticed his older son's expression change, as he glanced sideways at Robin with an odd look – something that Alan would call wistful, if he had to put a name on it. He glanced back to Charlie – his eyes were on his older brother's face; his expression soft - his younger son had noticed Don's wistful look, too.

'_A double wedding_,' thought Alan to himself, his grin widening. '_Now wouldn't that be something!_'

**……………………………………….**

Later that night – much later, considering the fact that he'd spent a couple of hours at Robin's apartment – Don stumped wearily up the steps to his apartment. Ordinarily, once he and Robin found themselves in the bedroom, he would have spent the night at her place, but she was getting up early in the morning for a jaunt up the coast with some girlfriends – it was a group that only got together once every four months or so, and he had to admit, he was looking forward to sleeping in, so he'd kissed her goodnight and headed home. He'd spent several nights up late that week working on the electronic theft case – and for what, he asked himself, a little sourly, as he let himself into his apartment. For Montague to ignore his efforts – hell, more than ignore them – the man almost sounded peeved that Don had gotten involved.

"Damned SS is probably gonna let it sit anyway," he grumbled to himself, as he shut the door, frowning as he noticed the light coming from his bedroom. He flicked on the living room light and just stood there for a moment. He knew the bedroom light was off when he left that morning – he turned it off at night, and he usually didn't turn it on in the morning – just the bathroom light, and the light in his closet. Never his bedroom light – the light coming from the bedroom window was enough to illuminate the room in the daytime. He felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck, but he glanced into the kitchen to be sure it was empty, and forced himself to move normally into the living room. He headed directly for a drawer in his bookcase, where he kept a backup piece. Pulling the gun out, he checked quickly to be sure it was loaded and flicked the safety off, then he made his way carefully down the short hallway to his bedroom, and plastered himself against the wall just outside the door for two seconds. He took a deep breath and set himself before he whirled, bringing the gun out in front of him, and rushed through the doorway. The room was empty but he kept moving, checking the closet, the bathroom, and finally under the bed, before he finally relaxed his stance and straightened.

He stood still for a moment, looking around the room. Nothing looked out of place; everything was as he had left it, except the light next to the bed. The socket into which the lamp was plugged was wired to the wall switch next to the bedroom door; perhaps he had just hit the switch accidentally on his way out earlier that day, and hadn't noticed the light was on in the daylight.

He shook his head. "Had to be it," he muttered, still trying to shake the uneasy feeling that he wasn't alone. He made one more sweep through the living room and kitchen and made sure the door was locked before he returned the backup piece to its drawer, and shook his head again, feeling a bit foolish. He was getting paranoid, apparently. The adrenaline rush receded, and yawning, he headed for his bedroom, wondering for the tenth time that night what Robin thought about Colby's double-wedding comment, and what she would do if he asked her.

**...........………………………………..**

Monday at lunch hour, Charlie had just settled at his desk with a stack of finals to grade and had taken an absent bite of his sandwich, when he heard a tentative knock on the door. At first, he ignored it, half-consciously; part of him recognized it was there, and hoped whoever it was would go away so he could get some work done, and part of him was already engrossed in following his student's answer to a problem. The knock sounded again, and this time he looked up, just as Don poked his head through the door. "Hey, Charlie, got a few minutes? I thought we could go out to lunch."

Charlie looked pointedly at his sandwich and the papers on his desk. "Uh, today's kind of busy…" He trailed off at the look on Don's face. His brother was wearing an odd expression; if Charlie didn't know better, he would call it distressed – but that was an emotion foreign to his brother, he was certain. Still, Don's face was pale, strained, and his eyes flicked nervously over the room. Charlie was suddenly very aware that whatever it was, his brother needed to talk. "Uh, but yeah, sure, I can grab a few minutes for lunch." He rose from his desk, with what he hoped was a cheerful, reassuring expression. '_Robin_,' he thought to himself. He recognized that expression now – the manifestation of nerves – he'd felt it himself when he was getting ready to propose to Amita. '_It had to be that double wedding comment_,' he thought to himself, a bit smugly, as he followed Don out through his office door, and locked it. '_Got him thinking, I'll bet_.'

He found himself grinning as he trailed Don through the outer door to the building, and it took him a minute to realize that Don was moving faster than normal, and he hurried to catch up. "Hey, what's the hurry?" he admonished, with a grin, as he pulled up alongside. "Relax – it's really no big deal. I mean it's scary at first, when you're getting ready to ask her, but she really likes you, I can tell. You don't need to worry."

Don shot him a look of confusion that didn't quite wash away the uneasiness from his face, but he said nothing; just grabbed Charlie's arm and pulled him off the sidewalk toward a secluded bench under a tree. He glanced around them before speaking, and Charlie's smile faded. "What?"

Don looked down at him, his face pale and tense, and took one more look around them before he spoke.

"I think I'm in trouble, Charlie."

**……………………………………………**

End, Chapter 3


	4. Eagle Eye Eppes

**Perception Deception**

**a tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 4: ****Eagle Eye Eppes**

Charlie gaped at Don for a moment, then sympathy and a hint of outrage came into his eyes. "She said 'no'? How could she say 'no'?"

It was Don's turn to gape, but he collected himself quickly and shook his head. "Charlie, this has nothing to do with Robin." Charlie's mouth actually dropped a little further and his eyes widened, but he said nothing. He was all ears now, and Don continued, with yet another furtive glance at the surrounding campus. "I came home last night, and my bedroom light was on. I was pretty sure I hadn't turned it on – I never do in the morning, but nothing seemed out of place, so I figured I must have hit the wall switch with my arm or something. Then this morning, David called me from the office just as I was getting ready to leave. The phone sounded a little odd, and there was a clicking noise right after I picked it up. I figured it was probably nothing, but after David hung up, I glanced at the handset, and it wasn't quite latched. There are two plastic halves to it, and the seam between them was a little bit open on the end. So I pried it open, and I found a 'bug' inside. A listening device."

_"__What?!"_

Don shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning Charlie to keep his voice down, but Charlie couldn't keep the concern from his voice or his eyes. "Do you have any idea who put it there?"

Don shook his head again, and moved over to the bench and sat, and Charlie did likewise, trying to look normal, although he was now sending surreptitious glances at their surroundings himself. Don looked up, his eyes narrowed as if scanning the horizon, but his gaze was unfocused, his mind obviously trained inward. "No. Well – I'm not sure. You remember that investigation I told you about a couple of days ago – the one I was running on my own? Well, Friday, I thought I had found enough incidences of theft to warrant putting the case in front of Wright, to see if he'd commit manpower to it. Since it had already gone to the Secret Service, he had to clear it with Jim Montague."

Charlie nodded. "The West Coast Director."

"Right. Well, Wright didn't seem too excited about it – in fact, he told me to get a life, but he'd said he'd ask Montague. When Wright called me back he sounded kind of – I don't know – ticked off about it, and I guess Montague had told him to give me a _direct order_ to stay off the case." His gaze finally turned, and Charlie could see the worry in his eyes. "I don't know, Charlie. Obviously, I stepped on someone's toes, and I don't know how, or why. I don't even feel like I can trust Montague after his reaction, so I'm not sure if I should go to Wright or not."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "You can't trust Montague?"

Don shrugged, helplessly. "It's just a feeling, I guess. I mean, all he had to say was 'drop it,' and I would have understood. A direct order – that's kind of overkill. And after Wright talked to him, he sounded all uptight – I can't put my finger on it. Maybe Montague was just pissed that I was wasting time on an SS case, but maybe it's more than that."

Charlie grew thoughtful. "Do you think Montague is involved?"

Don made a face. "Damned if I know. He might not be involved in the thefts, but maybe there's something else going on here – a covert sting by the government or something. Or maybe he is involved – hell, I don't know. I'm sure they put the bugs in while I was at the barbeque on Saturday, though, judging from the bedroom light. It's pretty coincidental that it happened the day after my request went to Montague."

Charlie frowned. "Bugs? Plural?"

Don nodded, soberly. "I found another in the bedroom. I checked the place, vents and all, for cameras, but I didn't find any of those – thank God, or they might have seen me find the bug. I left the bugs there – I didn't want to tip off whoever put them in that I knew they were there."

Charlie thought for a moment. "It might not be Montague. I mean, it could be, but you were searching out businesses affected by the thefts on your computer – did you send any emails? Make any phone calls?"

Don nodded. "Yeah, a couple – I was trying to get information from some of the business owners who'd been hit. I thought of that, too. Someone could have tracked a phone call or an email. I guess I just don't know where to go from here. Someone's watching me, and I have no idea who, or why."

Charlie sat up briskly. "Well, you came to the right place. Why don't you give me your list of businesses, and let me run some additional searches? If we can establish a link between them – or between them and someone else, maybe we can figure out who's behind this. Then you'll know whether you can take this up the ladder, or if we have to go through another contact."

Don looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Another contact?"

Charlie arched an eyebrow. "I've consulted on a few cases with agencies other than the FBI. Let's just say I have some friends in high places. If it's a covert federal investigation of some sort, I'll bet I can find out. And if not, and we think Montague's dirty and is acting on his own, then I can get them to help with that, too. The third option is that Montague's clean, but just doesn't want you wasting your time. In that case, we can bring it to him, and if we've solved the case already, he can hardly argue with that."

Don's face cleared a bit, and he said gratefully, "Thanks, buddy – I'd really appreciate it."

Charlie smiled at him. "No problem." His face softened. "Like I told you not too long ago, you've always had my back. It's my turn."

Don snorted softly, and smiled and shook his head. "Charlie, you've bailed me out on cases more times than I could count. You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, but those were cases. This time, it's personal," said Charlie. "It's different." He rose, and stood looking down at his older brother. "So let's go get lunch." He grinned and cocked his head in an attempt at reassurance. "We need to keep up appearances if someone's watching you, right? Besides, there's a new sandwich at Miro's Deli that's all the buzz on campus."

**………………………………………………**

Later that night, Charlie hunched over the keyboard in his bedroom, typing furiously on his laptop, which sat in a small halo of light from the lamp on his desk. He was ready for bed, wearing only boxers and a T-shirt, and had been for hours. He'd initially thought of taking a quick look at Don's list of businesses after he finished grading exams, and the quick look had stretched into a long one; he had become engrossed in setting up a search algorithm. He was so intent, he didn't hear Amita stir in the bed behind him, didn't realize that she'd woken until she asked plaintively, "Charlie, are you ever coming to bed?"

He blinked and sat up straight, trying to wrench his mind from the screen back into reality. He stretched and yawned, without quite taking his eyes off the display, then his shoulders drooped, and he sighed, reluctantly. 3:11 a.m., he read on the digital time display at the lower left of his screen. He hit 'save' with a grimace. "Yeah, I'm coming now."

He shut off the display but left the computer on – he had a program running in the background – and climbed wearily into bed. Amita turned on her side and stretched, sleepily, draped an arm over him, and twined her top leg with his. "What are you working on so late?" she murmured.

He brushed her lips with his, gently, tantalizingly, and she shifted closer as he pulled her body against his. "Something for Don," he mumbled back, his lips pressing hers more insistently, and he felt a little shudder of pleasure run through her.

"Bet I can take your mind off it," she purred throatily, and he smiled, his pulse quickening.

"I'll bet you can, too."

She was right. Afterward, they both dropped off into a contented dreamless sleep, still comfortably entwined, oblivious of the computer, which sat humming in the darkness.

**…………………………………………………**

J. Everett Tuttle sat impassively in his chair, his fingers tented, and looked at his messenger. Ralph Nardek was not your typical computer geek, in spite of the name. He was in his mid twenties, and although he wore glasses, they were edgy wire rims. The rest of him could have passed for one of the latest slightly grungy twenty-something heartthrobs on the cover of any gossip magazine, and a faint smirk told the world that he knew exactly how smart he really was. Behind him in the background of the study, which was dark even though it was late morning, stood Tuttle's right hand man, Derek Mace.

"Well?" asked Tuttle, impatiently.

"His brother's in on it, all right," said Nardek. "I picked up the professor's IP address when he hit the ABC Industries' site, and I put in a monitoring program – it's a low profile program running under the others on his computer – just like I did with Don Eppes. Little brother Charlie ran a search algorithm all night, pulling businesses that have been hit. He hasn't written an algorithm to look for connections yet, but that'll be a piece of cake for him – he will, it's just a matter of time."

Mace spoke up. He was a thick, broad-shouldered man with a square jaw, and his voice was just as thick as his body. "If he does that, we're done."

Nardek shrugged. "Not necessarily. If he links them, he'll find Illusion Inc., but we'll know it when he does. We can shut it down – they'll never be able to trace it back to you before we do."

"Still, that's too close," said Tuttle. "We need to nip this in the bud." He nodded at Nardek. "You can go. Keep an eye on any further activity."

He waited until Nardek ambled, slouching, from the room, and looked at Mace. "I'm not taking any chances with these two. I got confirmation that there's no official investigation going at the FBI – this is the Eppes brothers, working on their own. There's a chance they may know somehow that I'm involved, and this is a vendetta. Or, they could just be looking for a link, for an opportunity to put me away. Even if they don't know I'm involved, I want them gone, along with their computers – tonight."

**……………………………………**

That evening, Charlie pulled up to the Craftsman in his Prius to find Don's SUV parked on the street. It was a little before eight, and the golden late day sunlight pouring into Charlie's car, along with the lack of sleep the night before, had made him a bit sleepy. He shook it off as he spied Don's SUV, instantly wondering if his brother had news. The sad fact was; he didn't himself. So far, his search algorithm had pulled up a few more possible victims, all small businesses, but he was far from connecting them yet. Still, he reflected wearily, maybe Don would want to see them; maybe one of them would strike a chord, make Don think of something that would give them a connection.

He headed for the front door, yawning again as he crossed the lawn with slumping shoulders, his computer case hanging haphazardly from his shoulder, a backpack dangling so low from his hand that it dragged along the ground. He had just reached the planters in the front of the house when Don stepped out the front door, his eyes flickering over the street as he shut it. "Dad's not home yet," he said quietly. "You got anything?"

"A few more businesses came up in the search," said Charlie. "I was going to show them to you later. Is Dad on his way home?"

"He called, said he was going to be late. I think he thought you were going to answer the phone."

"I was grading finals." Charlie yawned again, and brightened. "The good news is those were the last of them."

"Why don't we grab a bite to eat," Don suggested, "and then we can stop at your office afterward. We can go over what you found without having to worry about Dad coming in and looking over your shoulder." He hesitated briefly. "Unless you're expecting Amita, later…"

Charlie shook his head. "Nah, she's home packing for her trip to London; I'm taking her to the airport tomorrow morning." He shrugged, and suppressed a yawn. "Okay; dinner sounds good, and then we can stop by Cal Sci to work -- although I don't think Dad would care if he did see something."

"I'm not worried about him caring," muttered Don, as they headed for his SUV. "I just don't want to drag him into whatever this is, too. It's bad enough I pulled you into it."

Charlie snorted good-naturedly as he reached for the handle of Don's SUV. "Pulled me into what? I ran a few searches, so what? You worry too much." He opened the door and tossed his backpack into the back seat, placing the computer case on the seat between them as he climbed into the vehicle. "Okay, let's grab dinner, and we'll head over to my office."

**………………………………………………..**

The two men sat in a van on the next block, while a third turned up the sound, and the professor's voice came floating out of the reception equipment. _"…grab dinner, and we'll head over to my office."_

The man in the passenger seat looked at the driver. "So let's get going. We need to follow 'em."

The driver smiled; a nasty sneer. "No we don't. We know exactly where they're gonna be. We'll let them come to us." He put the van in gear, and pulled out onto a side street, just catching a glimpse of the SUV as it made the end of the block.

**………………………………………**

Dinner was hamburgers at a nearby bar, and by the time they were done it was approaching nine, and darkness was falling. Silver twilight lit the streets as they drove toward CalSci, and Don watched Charlie blink at the streetlights as they came on. "Late night?"

"Huh?" Charlie turned bleary eyes on him. "Oh, yeah. I got involved in that search algorithm – it was three before I knew it."

Don grinned at him. "Don't give me that. I know Amita was there."

Charlie flushed to the roots of his dark hair, and chuckled self-consciously. "Well, now that you mention it, she was." He smiled sideways at Don. "She slept through most of my typing."

"Mmm hmm," Don grunted, still smiling, his tone laced with skepticism.

"You're a fine one to talk," retorted Charlie, with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You were at Robin's last night."

Don looked at him with a trace of bewilderment. "How'd you know?"

Charlie plucked a cardboard coffee cup from the center console. "Java Jive. There's one just down the street from her house, and there isn't one near your apartment."

Don lifted the corner of his lip, ruefully. "You know, some of the Bureau's investigative techniques must be rubbing off on you."

Charlie reached for his computer case with a satisfied smile, as Don swung into a parking space. "Yep, that's me. Eagle Eye Eppes."

Don snorted as they shut the doors and started for the building. "Don't push it."

The banter continued all the way up the walk, and down the quiet hallway. Don felt a warm comfortable feeling in his gut that had little do with the burger he'd just eaten, and everything to do with the company. He glanced down at his brother, watching him as he spoke animatedly. Charlie was in his element here, thought Don; it was obvious Cal Sci was home to him. And what a home it was, these days, with his appointment as head of the math department, and his impressive new office. Don couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride as Charlie reached for his keys to unlock the heavy door.

They stepped inside, and Charlie fumbled for the switch. "What's the matter?" joked Don, "you haven't figured out where the switch is yet, Eagle Eye? Let me-,"

The rest of his words were stopped short as a large shape hurtled out of the darkness into him, and a fist exploded in his gut. Vaguely, at the same time, he heard a soft 'unnhh,' from Charlie, and in the faint light from the hallway, he saw his brother fall.

**………………………………………**

**End Chapter 4  
**


	5. E Equals MC Squared

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 5: ****E = MC Squared**

It was quite some time before Charlie's mind, regarded by thousands as one of the most impressive minds of several generations, was able to piece together what was happening. One moment, he was reaching for the overhead light switch near the door. The next moment, his left arm was nearly dislocated, as someone first ripped his computer bag off his shoulder, and then slung him across the room like a rag doll. He wasn't aware of making any kind of verbal response; his grunt of surprise didn't register in his own ears. All he could hear was a stack of freshly graded finals hitting the floor as he slammed into the corner of the large oak desk. The hip-bruising collision had two results. First, the fate of the final exams pissed Charlie off. Yes, they were already graded, and the grades were entered into the university's database, but the exams represented many hours of hard work. Both he and his students had invested sweat equity and heartburn into those exams, and they deserved to be treated with respect. Second, the brass desk lamp -- which was motion-activated -- switched on, casting a warm glow around the large office and momentarily stunning his attacker. Charlie pushed himself away from the desk and ducked his head, ramming the man solidly in the solar plexus. A gasp of expelled air was quickly followed by the thunk of the laptop onto the floor as the assailant lost his grip as well as his balance. His arms windmilled as Charlie head-butted him across the room.

Don was too busy exchanging blows with his own would-be bushwhacker to really take note of what was happening with Charlie -- although he would have been proud when the kid started fighting back. Don was bleeding slightly from a small cut received by a glancing blow to his brow, and he blocked a right hook, quickly following up with a left uppercut to the chin. Neither Eppes found himself in a position to stop the fisticuffs and politely ask why the two strangers had hidden in Charlie's dark office. As soon as Charlie had opened the door, they had become embroiled in a fight for survival.

While Don's opponent staggered back toward one of the large, freestanding bookcases that lined the West wall of the office, Charlie's adversary regained his feet. He grabbed a fistful of curls in each hand and jerked Charlie's head out of his gut. The attacker was considerably larger than Charlie, both heavier and taller, and once he had the upper hand again, it took very little effort for him to propel the professor back toward his desk. Charlie stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet, fists flaying through the air and connecting with nothing. He gasped another squawk of distress and fear. Again, he wasn't aware of the sound; but, Don heard. The older brother bellowed in rage and drove a shoulder into the chest of his enemy, putting all of his weight behind the move until the man slammed into the bookcase. Books fell from several shelves as the unit rocked slightly under the pressure. Don heard yet another wordless cry from Charlie and latched onto the nearest shelf with both hands. He encouraged the rocking motion, and more books cascaded onto both of their heads. Don ignored them, and with a final, gargantuan, adrenaline-fueled effort, wrenched the bookcase into a forward fall. He tried to scramble backwards, but ended up lying on one side with his feet trapped under the Cherrywood piece.

He fared better than his rival, who was on his stomach, the lower half of his body trapped under the bookcase, a "logical thinking" textbook lying on his back. The fall had propelled the air from his lungs, and Don took the opportunity to glance toward the desk. Charlie was bent over backwards over the desktop in a position that made Don's own back twinge, and the brute on top of him was methodically banging his head into the wood. Don growled and turned back to tug his feet from their trap, ripping one shoe off in the process. He clambered to his hands and knees, pausing long enough to kick his attacker in the head, rendering him unconscious. Then he hurtled in a half-crouch toward the desk -- arriving just in time to see Albert Einstein, a heavy paperweight bust cast in bronze and clutched in Charlie's hand, come crashing down onto the head of the other stranger. The man slithered to the floor without a sound, Charlie following in his wake.

Charlie crawled rapidly across the floor to his laptop, which he picked up and cradled defensively in front of his chest, much as he had during the shooting in the FBI bullpen two years before. He clutched the computer case and stared with wide, shock-blown eyes at the brass bust of Albert Einstein, which was lying near the now-still body. Bits of hair and a light coating of blood adorned the base of the paperweight.

Don opened his mouth to speak, but only got "Ch" out before he remembered that the office might be bugged and stopped. If someone was listening, the altercation in the office was plain; however, he had no intention of letting an eavesdropper know which side had won. Instead he half-crawled across the space that separated him from his brother and paused in front of him. He took Charlie's face in both of his hands and forced him to tear his gaze from the downed assailant and look at Don. The older brother frowned at the lack of recognition in Charlie's eyes. At first he had assumed Charlie was in shock, but now he remembered that his head had been slammed into the wooden desktop a number of times; perhaps there was also a concussion. Don hesitated for a moment, then stood, pulled out a set of plastic wrist ties from the pocket of his jeans, and hurried back to the man he had left unconscious and trapped under the bookcase. He made quick work of securing the man's hands behind his back. Then he scurried back to the man Charlie had knocked out. Pulling his metal handcuffs from the back of his waistband, Don cuffed one of the man's wrists to the short, stubby leg of the solid desk. He estimated that the desk weighed several hundred pounds, so even if the man regained consciousness, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

While Don was securing the perps, his mind was in overdrive. He and Charlie needed to get out of here -- and not just the Cal Sci office. They needed to get out of Los Angeles, go deep underground, fall back and regroup. He had obviously stepped on some very sensitive toes, and now both he and his brother were targets. They couldn't call on the Bureau for help, because top Bureau officials might be involved. Although he trusted David, Colby and Liz, his team did not know about the potential departmental corruption; anything the team discovered would be spoon-fed to people who might be trying to kill Don and Charlie. As for Charlie's contacts in other agencies...well, maybe somebody could help them out, but not unless they managed to stay alive long enough to be saved.

Don crawled back to crouch in front of Charlie, and leaned in close to his ear. "We've got to leave," he whispered. "Before Campus Security -- or somebody even worse -- gets here."

Charlie finally blinked, which Don took as a good sign. His brother still looked confused, however, and when Charlie's lips parted as if he was about to speak, Don slapped a hand firmly over his mouth. Charlie's eyes, already impossibly wide, grew even larger as Don moved behind him. Leaving a hand over his brother's mouth, Don secured his other hand under Charlie's elbow, and started tugging upwards. "Get up," he whispered again into his ear. Charlie didn't really struggle, but he didn't help much, either, and Don had to practically drag him out of the office and down the hall to the door that led to the staircase. Risking Charlie's yell, Don removed his hand from his mouth and reached out to open the door, shoving Charlie through roughly.

Once they were in the stairwell, he started whispering again. "How long until security comes through here?"

Charlie shuddered, pulling himself together with visible effort. "B-b-b-budget cuts," he stammered. "Cal Sci cut security staff for the summer, so one guard has to cover the whole building, now. He g-g-gets up here every couple of hours."

Don thought. No one had come running at the considerable noise in Charlie's office, so chances were that the guard was currently pretty far away. Still, the sooner he and Charlie were out of here, the better. He made a number of split-second decisions. "Give me your cell," he ordered, ripping his own from his waistband.

Hope flared in Charlie's eyes. "Are you calling for help?"

Don grimaced. "Who, Charlie? The FBI could be part of this -- and they'll pull rank on LAPD if we call them, take the case over."

Charlie's grip on his computer was turning his fingers white. "Can Robin help?" he asked.

Don looked sadly at the floor. "If Montague is involved, probably not. His wife works at the justice department. He looked back at Charlie."The computer stays here too, Buddy. We'll leave it here in the stairwell, and ditch our phones in the parking lot. That way, it'll look more like we were abducted."

Charlie protested, too loudly for Don's comfort. "No! This is important!" Before Don could answer, Charlie glanced quickly toward their feet, then up again. "Your shoe is missing."

Don grabbed Charlie's upper arm, squeezing so hard he was probably leaving bruises. "Listen to me!" he hissed. "Somebody could have your IP address. The laptop and the phones have GPS chips we don't want anyone tracing. I'm sorry, Charlie, but the computer stays."

Charlie still didn't look convinced. "But...how will I figure out what's going on? I need a computer!" He let go of the computer with one hand and reached a shaky finger toward Don's eyebrow. "You're bleeding..."

Don started prying the case from Charlie's remaining fingers. "You need to be alive first, damn it, Charlie. We'll think of something." He resorted to pleading. "Come on, Buddy, we've gotta hurry!"

Charlie's death-grip finally lessened, and Don started easing the burden onto the floor. "You need shoes," Charlie said again. "And a bandage."

"I've got another pair in my bag, in the SUV," Don informed him, indicating the stairs. "First aid kit, too -- but I don't think I'm bleeding, anymore. Let's get going; you can check it out for me down at the vehicle."

Charlie let the computer rest on the ground, but didn't move. "You said the SUV could be bugged," he remembered. "Even if it's not, as a police vehicle, it can be located via GPS."

Don sighed, running a hand through his hair. He thought for a moment, then finally asked, "How much cash do you have on you?"

Charlie stared at him briefly before he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a wallet. He unfolded it, looked in a few compartments, and swore softly. "Shit."

Don could feel himself starting to panic, and he forced himself to calm down. "What? Nothing?"

Charlie looked up sheepishly from the wallet. "Twenty-seven cents," he answered. "Plus a royalty check for almost eight thousand; I was supposed to go to the bank, today. I wanted to get some travelers' checks for Amita."

Despite their predicament, Don couldn't stop himself from asking. "Royalty check? From your book? For how long?"

Charlie reddened. "Doesn't matter," he said uncomfortably. Suddenly, he groaned. "What am I going to do about Amita?"

Don bodily dragged Charlie to the staircase. "Live long enough to marry her, if I have anything to say about it," he muttered.

**……………………………………………..**

End, Chapter 5


	6. Rules One Through Eight

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 6: ****Rules One through Eight**

Charlie's backpack had been in the backseat of Don's SUV, and now he clutched it as tightly as he had the computer, standing in front of the check-cashing storefront. He took a deep breath and tried to remember everything Don had told him before dropping him off a block away, but his head was full of the warning buzz of white noise that often accompanied system overload, and concentration was difficult. He forced himself to slow down, and break the equation into smaller, more digestible segments.

He had already followed the First Rule: keep himself alive in East L.A., while he walked the streets at close-to-midnight. Good. He could scratch that one off the chalkboard in his head. Having safely arrived at the store, with its blazing _"__Open__24__H urs__"_ sign, he pushed his way inside with his elbow. That was Rule Number Two: leave no prints. Number Three was closely related: find and avoid any security cameras. While still out on the sidewalk, Charlie had easily spotted a unit mounted high in the northwest corner of the small store -- which was blessedly empty of patrons, at the moment. A lone male employee sat behind a counter reading a magazine. Charlie moved on with the plan. Immediately upon entering the store, he plastered himself to the wall and lifted the backpack into a position to cover his face; then he slunk around the outer perimeter until he was standing directly beneath the camera, out of its range. He lowered the pack and found the employee on duty holding a .357 Magnum in both hands, and pointing it directly at him. Ordinarily, that would have been enough to drop him where he stood; but ordinarily, he didn't use Albert Einstein to kill bad guys.

He swallowed and held up his hands. "I'll give you one thousand dollars," he whispered, "to turn off your camera and forget everything about me."

The Magnum lowered, and the eyebrows rose. The man let go of the gun with his right hand, which he moved down to fumble with something Charlie couldn't see behind the counter. "Fifteen hundred," he said.

Rule Number Three-and-a-Half: Don't Bargain. Don said to give the guy whatever he wanted. Charlie's curls bobbed as he nodded his head silently, hands still in the air.

The man smiled, but did not lower the gun. "Show me the money," he ordered. "Consider me Cuba Gooding, Jr."

Charlie's brow furrowed in confusion -- he tended to avoid Tom Cruise movies (the actor was too short), and had no idea what the man was talking about -- and he risked speaking above a whisper. "Take it off the top of the check," he offered, pausing a moment. "Plus your fee, of course."

The gun finally disappeared below the counter, and the employee gestured. "Let me see it," he said.

Charlie had heard the whirring of the camera stop as he stood below it, and now he moved up to the counter and hefted his backpack onto the top. He started to unzip the pack, but his new friend slapped his hand away and dragged the bag closer to his side of the counter. Opening the pack, he peered inside, shaking it a few times. Finally he shoved it back toward Charlie. "Looking for weapons," he shrugged. "Don't think you can do much harm with an apple."

Charlie didn't answer -- Rule Number 4, speak as little as possible -- and quickly withdrew his wallet from the backpack. He unfolded it, took out the royalty check and his driver's license, and handed them to the clerk.

For a man who had just made fifteen hundred dollars, he didn't seem all that impressed. "Gotta write down two forms of ID," he informed Charlie. You got something else?"

Charlie sighed, and withdrew his Cal Sci ID badge. The man took the card, studied it for a moment, then barked out a laugh. "What is this, some kind of initiation thing?" Charlie just shrugged, and the clerk went back to his business. "Fee's 12 percent," he informed Charlie before he turned to a safe behind him. "That leaves you five thousand, seven hundred, forty two and some change, dude."

Charlie would have been upset about losing so much of his royalty check, if he wasn't so busy hoping he didn't lose the rest of it completing his next assignment.

* * *

Don stuffed a hand in his pocket and commanded his feet to slow; a clean-cut white man striding briskly through this neighborhood at night would draw thugs like a picnic drew flies. He forced a bit of a swagger into his walk, kept his head up, his eyes raking the street without appearing to do so. He hated like hell leaving Charlie in this neighborhood by himself, but they had little choice, and even less time. They needed to get their hands on a car, and fast; it would be only a matter of time before LAPD and the Bureau would put together the attack on Charlie's office, the abandoned computer in the hallway and cell phones in the parking lot, and go looking for Don's SUV. Even more concerning was the fact that the SUV might be bugged, and whoever was behind the attack was tracking it. He figured they had a couple of hours on the police and the FBI – they might only have minutes on whomever was behind the attack.

He swore softly as he turned down another block – there was rumor of a chop shop operating out of this area, but they had yet to find its exact whereabouts, and he was beginning to realize that he had as much chance of finding it in the next few minutes as he had of sleeping in his own bed that night. He stopped in front of a battered pickup and was considering breaking in and trying to hot wire it, when he caught sight of a figure coming toward him in the darkness.

A hooker. She was black, good-looking from what he could tell in the darkness, and had a sultry, swaying walk, and an even sultrier purr. "Lookin' for some action?"

He eyed her coolly, allowing an appraising smile to come to his face, and roughening his voice, added a little street inflection. "Any other night – yeah. I got other needs, tonight."

She shrugged. "You need a hit, a little party blast? I can steer you to the party man, for a price."

Don's eyes narrowed. "I need a car. Can you steer me to that?"

She licked her lips. "How much?"

He hesitated. He only had forty dollars; he needed to get cash from Charlie, but he wasn't going to let her know he didn't have it yet. "A hundred."

She snorted derisively but he wasn't fooled; he saw the gleam in her eye. "Make it two," she said.

He shook his head, started down the sidewalk. "I got directions from someone else," he said. "They're probably good enough. One – take it or leave it."

She scowled and hurried after him, and he knew he'd picked the right the direction on a hunch. "Okay, okay," she huffed, awkwardly trying to match his stride in her platform heels. "Come wi' me."

She led him down the block, then turned right. They crossed the street and headed down a dark alley, and Don was beginning to wonder whether he'd been smart about this – she could be leading him into a mugging. She kept her head down, muttering to herself, her head twitching a bit. A heroin addict; coming down – she'd be hurting in a couple of hours without a hit. They turned the corner, and he found himself in a narrow side street, a dead end, and at the end of it light spilled out from a partially open bay door, set into a brick building, looming black in the darkness.

She nodded curtly, and put her palm out greedily. "That's it. Don' tell 'em I tole you where it is – they don' like strangers."

He fished out his wallet, and gave her what he had in it – two twenties. "I'll give you the rest later," he said, "after I check it out."

Her eyes flashed and she hissed at him, but she snatched the money out of his hand. "You lyin'!"

"Maybe you're lyin'," he challenged her. "You hang around; when I come back I'll give you the rest."

He turned and left her, the hair rising on the back of his neck as he turned his back to her, half expecting to get a bullet between the shoulder blades. He made it all the way to the door before he looked back. The street was empty behind him. Inside, he could hear a radio playing, and the sound of a power saw. He pushed the bay door open, and stepped inside.

* * *

The 7-11 was exactly one city block uptown from the check cashing store. Charlie left a much-happier cashier, counting his money, at exactly midnight. He was very glad that he didn't believe in things like luck, or witching hours, but he was still careful to walk casually down the street, as if he was not carrying over five thousand dollars in cash in his backpack.

That was Rule Number 5.

In the convenience store, Charlie purchased three prepaid cell phones (50 minutes each); one bubblepack 5 x 7 envelope (which he asked the clerk to address for him, claiming, truthfully enough, that his handwriting was illegible); a book of stamps; and a pack of gum (he didn't chew the stuff himself, but Don liked it -- and Charlie had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to make at least one of his own decisions). Altogether, he spent around three hundred and fifty dollars. He had the cashier shove everything into his pack, so that he wouldn't end up walking the streets with a shopping bag, which Don insisted was an engraved invitation to muggers (Rule Number Six). When he came out of the store, he was breathing easier. True, he had a pack full of cash and cell phones, but he was fairly certain that he had followed all the rules so far, and there were only a few left.

The all-night diner was another six blocks. This was the truly frightening part. He had to pass a condemned tenement that was apparently serving as a flop house for the homeless; even at this late hour there were people of every description out and about. Most ignored him; some were obviously more scared than he was to find themselves in this potentially violent and unprotected neighborhood in the middle of the night. Drunks lounging on the crumbling steps of the tenement begged him for money. He felt a wild, hysterical laugh at the back of his throat when that happened, and wondered what they would do if he handed one of them five thousand dollars, but he managed to control himself. In the interim, he heard his alter-ego offering them his apple, instead. He had no idea where that came from -- he almost looked behind him to see who was talking. One of the men said that he had no teeth, but a possible woman sitting between the two men on the steps said that she'd take it, so Charlie stopped, unzipped his pack just a few inches, and withdrew the apple. It was perhaps the most surrealistic moment of his life thus far, since he had to push aside an envelope bulging with money to get his hands on the apple.

The diner was nearly empty -- who knew how they could afford to stay open all night -- but in accordance with Rule Number Seven, Charlie took a booth as far away from the street, the windows, and the other diners as possible. He sandwiched the backpack between his hip and the wall, and ordered some coffee. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he closed his eyes, held a glass of ice water to his temple, and let his mind wander.

He wondered if he could be in some mild form of shock. He had never raised his hand against another person in his life. In elementary school, when he was often the target of bullies, he would let himself get beaten to a pulp over and over again -- until Don figured out what was happening and conducted an intervention, of sorts. He hadn't even gotten physical when Duryea's girls grabbed Amita off the street -- a fact with which he wasn't entirely comfortable, even if the pistol whipping provided somewhat of an excuse. In fact, maybe the way he had behaved during the kidnapping fueled his behavior tonight. It had happened so quickly, but Charlie always understood that Don was at risk as well as himself, and he had reacted accordingly, simply trying to get his assailant off him long enough for Charlie to get to Don. Now, for all he knew, there was a dead man in his office, Charlie's own paperweight covered with the deceased's blood and hair – and Charlie's fingerprints. The thought bothered Charlie, needled him at a deep level -- but not because he may have killed a man. Rather, he knew without a doubt that he would do it again, and that knowledge stunned him. Now he felt even guiltier for not protecting Amita.

The arrival of his coffee jerked him from his thoughts. Charlie replaced the glass of water on the table, and waited until the waitress was busy with one of the few other customers. Then he removed the cell phones, in their plastic shells, from his pack. His struggles to open the packages brought back the waitress, who winked at him and offered him a sharp steak knife. Charlie blushed -- but took the knife. Once he had liberated the phones, Charlie began his next-to-last assignment. First, he programmed each phone with the numbers of the other two. He used one to call one of the others, and speaking quietly, left a voice mail. Then, he put half of his stamps on the envelope, and slipped the phone with the voice mail inside. As he sealed the self-stick flap, his hand rested almost reverently on Amita's address on the outside of the envelope. He and Don were going to need her help if they were going to get out of this, and he silently apologized to her for possibly putting her at risk again, so soon after her ordeal with Duryea. He placed the envelope back inside the pack, where it would rest until they found a mail receptacle on a street somewhere. Then he sat back and sighed, for Rule Number Eight was the most difficult of all.

Now, he had to wait for Don to show up.

* * *

It didn't take long. Charlie was just beginning to feel slightly nauseous from the pounding in his head and the cloying smell of grease in the diner, when Don pushed through the door, and jerked his head. Charlie was up on his feet in an instant, and tossing down a dollar and change to cover the coffee, followed Don out the door, shaking his head a bit to clear the dizziness that had hit him when he jumped to his feet. "Did you find one?"

"Yeah." Don glanced up and down the street, then headed up the block, and Charlie trotted beside him. "This way. I got a car for a trade on the SUV, but he wants a hundred bucks for the plates."

He glanced over his shoulder as they turned each corner, looking for pursuers, but saw no one following. A car cruised slowly down the street, bass thumping, the nasal voice of a rapper floating out of the windows, and four curious dark heads turned to stare at them as the car passed, gazes insolent, appraising. Don felt a chill run down his spine; he recognized the gang insignia, and pulled on Charlie's arm again, urging him around another corner, out of sight.

They trotted across the street and ducked down the dark alley as the thump of the bass rose again, then ebbed behind them on the street they had just exited. Even in the darkness, Don could see Charlie's head jerk around nervously at the sound, and he stumbled a bit as he faced forward again. As they reached the end of the alley, Don slowed, his eyes scanning it and the small dead-end street as they turned into it. He'd half expected to see the hooker again, wanting the rest of her $100, but the only person there was a man, leaning against the brick wall. He detached himself lazily as the brothers approached, and Don recognized him as one of the men from inside the chop shop. Keeping guard outside, making sure that Don didn't come back with unwanted guests – namely, law enforcement, ready to give the men inside a heads-up if he did. The man relaxed a bit as he saw that there were just the two of them, and gave Don a curt nod. "He's waiting for you."

They followed the man through the bay door, which had been pulled completely shut, and Don and Charlie both blinked in the relative brightness of the interior. The whine of a power saw filled the air, as three men worked over a new-looking Dodge pickup. The head of the outfit approached them, a big swarthy man, wiping his hands on a rag, eyeing Charlie with curiosity and thinly-veiled speculation. "You got the cash?"

"Yeah, well, we ran into a little problem," said Don. "We don't have quite as much on us as I thought." He jerked his head toward Charlie. "He's a little loose with his money." He caught the flash of indignation on Charlie's face, but thankfully, his brother caught on; Charlie remained silent. Don continued, "We can give you fifty for the plates, and the SUV."

"No way. That Crown Vic has a cop package – 4.6 liter V-8 engine, high performance tires – it'll do 146. I should be askin' for more." He was scowling, but he didn't go ballistic – Don figured that was a good sign.

"Yeah, if it doesn't blow a rod first. It's got too many miles to be that kind of deal, and you know it." Don countered. Charlie looked at him with a hint of alarm – Don knew he sounded cocky, but he was betting these men would respond to that.

The man considered, wiped his face with a dirty rag. It was stifling in the garage, and the room was filled with the rank scent of perspiration. "Okay – I can buy the trade for the SUV, but I need eighty for the plates – cant' get 'em for less," he said with a scowl. He jerked his head toward a crate. "I'll let you pick out your own – they're all clean."

Don nodded. "Deal." He glanced at Charlie, who pulled his backpack off his shoulder and rummaged inside, then pulled out the cash, fanned so the man could see it was all there. The man took it, and Don tossed him the keys. "The SUV's parked out on the main street at the end of the alley."

The man nodded, wiped his face again, and shouted at one of his men. "Hey Frankie! Open up that door!" He grinned at Don, who had pulled a set of plates from the crate, and was already heading for a dark green Crown Victoria, which sat over to one side. "Nice doin' bizness with ya."

Don didn't respond; he headed straight for the drivers' side of the vehicle, and Charlie scurried after him, piling into the passenger seat with his backpack clutched to his chest. The man named Frankie pulled open the sliding bay door, and Don backed the car out into the alley, then got out and attached the plates. As he finished putting the last screw in the rear plate he stood and caught Charlie staring at him through the rear window, with an alarmed look on his face. He realized the reason for it as a familiar voice came from behind him. "Y'all got my money?"

He turned to see the hooker, lower lip stuck out pugnaciously, holding a small but lethal pistol at his chest. The car door slammed behind him and his heart lurched – he jerked his head around and snarled, "Charlie, stay in the car."

Charlie hesitated, then came slowly forward, his eyes glued to the pistol. "We owe her money?" He reached into his backpack. "How much?"

The hooker's eyes flitted greedily toward him, and she grinned, sending a flash of gold through the darkness from her front teeth. "Two hunnedd."

"Sixty," said Don at the same time.

Charlie shrugged and looked at her. "All I have is forty." In spite of his casual words, he was nervous; Don could see his hand shaking a bit as he held two twenties out to her, as if holding out a piece of meat to a lion.

She hesitated, her face falling. "Come on," said Don, "you don't want trouble and neither do we – take it and get out."

Her shoulders fell, but she snatched the money and jammed the pistol in her purse, and strode unsteadily away, disappearing into the alley behind her. Don glanced at Charlie. "Let's get out of here."

They climbed into the vehicle, and Don grinned as he threw it into gear. "Only forty, huh? I thought I told you not to bargain."

Charlie shrugged. "You said not to haggle with the check-cashing guy," he pointed out. "I heard nothing about hookers."

He caught just a ghost of a smile as Don backed down the dark alley, and out into the street at the end. Don threw the car out of reverse with a quick look around the dark street, and they sped off into the night.

* * *

End, Chapter 6


	7. Childhood Heroes' Demise

**Perception Deception**

**a tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 7: ****Childhood Heroes' Demise**

They made one more stop before leaving town; Don found another diner – a safe enough place to stow Charlie before he ran one more necessary errand. When he returned, he slid into the opposite side of the booth and studied his brother carefully. Charlie was pale beneath the day's stubble, and the expression in his eyes as he looked back reminded Don of survivors of a violent crime. They always looked at him as if he could explain what had just happened, or tell them it was all a dream. He had stopped at the counter and grabbed a cup of coffee on his way to the table, so that the waitress wouldn't interrupt them. He wasn't particularly thirsty for the beverage, but he needed the caffeine for the drive ahead. He took a sip, then balanced the thick ceramic mug on the table in front of him. "So I really didn't get a chance to ask you," he said. "Everything go all right?"

Charlie started a bit, almost as if he hadn't been sure Don was real until he heard him speak. He bobbed his head up-and-down. "Rules One through Eight," he said. "I did everything the way you told me." He looked down at his own mug of coffee, suddenly embarrassed. "Well, there was an apple incident..." Before Don could demand details, he looked back up quickly, anxiety on his face. "What about the SUV? Won't they track it?"

Don allowed himself a small grin. "Absolutely. Like you said, it's a police vehicle; there's a GPS tracking chip. It's embedded in the steering column, so the guys at the chop shop won't find it, even if they start breaking down the SUV right away. By this time tomorrow, or even earlier, the GPS should lead our guys directly to the chop shop -- and they'll be out of business!"

Charlie shivered and drew his jacket closer around his body. "Isn't that going to make them angry?" he asked. "They could give the cops a description of the Crown Vic and we'll still be screwed. Or maybe someone other than the cops will get to them first."

Don's grin got a little bolder. "I thought of that. I took the plates from the middle of the stack they had in the garage; they didn't even watch to see which ones I took. We'll stop at the 7-11 and buy a couple of cans of spray paint and then stop in a secluded parking lot on the way out of town, and change up the paint job."

Charlie greeted this news silently. Don took a sip of the coffee -- it was like acid, he should have settled for No-Doz® -- and set the mug back on the table. "We should go," he finally said. "I need to see a man about some fake ID before we hit the road; and we need to find a mailbox."

Charlie blinked. "This is absolutely insane," he said. "You say _'hit the road'_ like we're on vacation! Why can't we call Colby? You _know_ we can trust him!"

Don frowned. "Charlie, right now I'm not sure how much I trust _you_," he answered brusquely. When Charlie winced, he gentled his voice. "That's not true," he amended. "I'm sorry." He reached to lay a hand on Charlie's arm. He sighed, then started speaking slowly, as if thinking about every word before he said it. "I...guess it hit me harder than I thought. Colby and the Chinese government. Megan giving up on the Bureau without even talking to me, first." He swallowed, and dropped his gaze to the table. "You and the Pakistani e-mail." He hurried on over Charlie's quick intake of breath. "Believe me; I'd love to trust my team implicitly. I'm just not sure that I do, anymore."

Charlie pulled his arms back so that he could cross them over his chest defensively. He looked stricken, and it was difficult for Don to look at his face. "But those are the people you trust with your _life_!" he hissed.

Don shrugged, and rubbed his hand over his chest absently. "Maybe. Look where _that_ got me." He dropped his hand to his lap. "Besides – that doesn't mean I trust them with yours." Charlie was stunned speechless, and looked at Don as if he were five years old and Don had just said that there was no Santa Claus. Always the big brother, Don tried to make it all better. "Listen." he continued. "Somebody wants both of us gone, and is powerful enough, connected enough, to employ some pretty sophisticated means of surveillance. We have to assume whoever it is already has his eyes on the people around us, as well. By calling Colby, or anybody else, we might be signing his death warrant, along with our own. By now, Cal Sci security has called LAPD, who called the FBI. Dispatch would have matched your name to the agents' family list, and notified the team. Colby, David, Liz, Nikki -- they're probably at the scene already. Wright is going to be all over everything they find; it's standard op in situations like this, and if he's dirty, his involvement is even more likely. There are other people at stake here, Charlie. Amita, Dad. Larry. Any one of them could become a retaliation target if we don't figure out what's going on, who's involved."

His voice faded away, and both brothers were silent until Charlie reached into his backpack and withdrew a cell phone. He pushed it across the table to Don. "This is yours," he said quietly. "Mine is already in my pocket." He looked back into the pack, inserted a hand and rustled around for a moment. Suddenly he stopped, smiled brightly and pulled his hand back out. He was holding the gum -- and a flash drive. He handed the gum to Don and started speaking excitedly. "I forgot this was in my pack, Don! I put a copy of everything related to the electronic fraud on here; I intended to give it to you later, so you could update the files on your laptop." He lowered his voice to a whisper, which did little to hide his growing excitement. "Do you know what this means? I still have enough money to buy a good laptop, something with a decent amount of power, and RAM...I can start working on the search again right away!"

Don secured the cell phone to the waistband of his jeans and shoved the pack of gum into his pocket. He was stalling; loathe to tell Charlie that there was no Easter Bunny, either. "Chuck..."

Charlie was still smiling."This is great, isn't it? We can drive for a few hours -- maybe to San Diego, and then I can get a new laptop! We can sit in an internet cafe, or some other place with WiFi, most hotels have it - and..."

"Charlie!" Don interrupted, this time a little more loudly. When Charlie shut his mouth and looked at him questioningly, Don jumped into the deep end of the pool. "I need five grand."

Charlie's eyes went wide. "What? _What_?"

"The ID," Don explained. "I know a guy, here in L.A.; let's just call him a snitch who owes me. If we give him photos -- like from our current IDs -- he can make us something that will get us past anything. New licenses, Social Security cards...if we had enough money and time, he could even get us passports. He's pretty outstanding in his field."

Charlie shook his head, adamant. "But...we won't even have three hundred dollars left, after that! What with gas and food...if we buy the laptop, maybe we won't be gone long enough to need ID!"

It was Don's turn to be surprised. "Three hundred?! How the hell much did you give the guy at the check place, anyway?"

Charlie looked affronted. "Rule Number 3.5! You told me not to negotiate!"

The waitress looked toward their table; Don noticed and lowered his voice, hoping Charlie would follow his lead. "Okay, okay -- never mind that. Charlie, I've been working on this electronic fraud for weeks, and you've had your hands on it for several days. Are you saying now that you can crack the case with one afternoon in an internet cafe?" Charlie reddened, and Don continued. "Face it; we could be under for a significant amount of time. We need to get as far away from L.A. as we can, and then we need to be able to get jobs, so that we _can_ buy a new laptop -- maybe even a meal, or two!" Don sat back and watched the Easter Bunny die.

Finally Charlie reached into his pack one last time, brought out his thick envelope of cash and pushed it across the table. Don could barely hear him when he spoke, since he was moving out of the booth at the same time, dragging the pack behind him. "I want a receipt," Charlie grumbled.

* * *

Colby Granger stirred sleepily as his phone shrilled, and turned over with a groan to answer it, blinking groggily at the alarm. It read 1:18, and he scowled as he picked up the receiver. "Yeah."

Nikki Betancourt's cocky voice floated out of it, and the sound of it made him even crankier. "Hey, Granger, wake up."

"I _am_ awake," growled Colby. "It's the middle of the night – can't LAPD handle whatever-it-is until morning?"

Ordinarily, Nikki would have retorted with something mocking, but her voice sounded uncharacteristically tense. "They _were_ handling it," she said, "but when the captain on night duty saw that it went down at Charlie Eppes' office, he called us. I got a call from David – he and I are on the way there – I'm calling Liz next."

Colby was wide awake now, and springing from his bed with an impatient toss of the blankets. He grabbed a pair of pants from the floor and jammed in a leg. "What went down?"

"Some kind of altercation at Charlie's office. There were signs of a struggle, and two men secured – handcuffs and zip ties - when the security guard found them. When LAPD got there, they had security try to call Charlie, and the captain on duty tried to get Don. Neither one answered. They found their cell phones out in the parking lot, ringing -- and a shoe, in Charlie's office. Neither Charlie's car or Don's SUV is on the premises."

"What?" Colby stuck his right arm in a shirt sleeve, transferred the phone to that hand and shrugged his left arm into the other.

"You heard me."

Colby had stuffed his feet into shoes, and snatched his badge and gun in its holster from the nightstand as he headed for the door. "That doesn't make sense – who in the hell are the guys in the office, and if they were overpowered, who did it?"

Nikki's voice was grim. "That's what we're going to try to sort out. You comin', or do you need to do your hair?"

"Funny. On my way," responded Colby as he slammed his door shut, and headed down the hallway at a jog, his shirttails flapping.

**………………………………………………**

Don shifted his grip on the wheel, and looked away from the dark expanse of highway long enough to catch a glimpse of Charlie. His head was hanging and his eyelids were drooping – he looked exhausted, but he seemed to be fighting sleep, and had been ever since they left town with their fake IDs.

Don's contact, a snitch named Lenny Green, had provided the IDs reluctantly. For one, it was late, and they woke him up; for another, he grumbled that ID sets of the quality that he was making for them would cost double what they were paying him – for just one set. Don reassured him, told him he was good for the remaining money, and Lenny had suddenly become more efficient, generating the sets in a little over an hour. Still, by the time they got on the road it was nearly two in the morning, and Don knew that Charlie had gotten little sleep the night before.

"Hey, Chuck, why don't you get some shut-eye? We'll be driving for a while, and I'll need to sleep too, eventually – I'll need you to drive." Although not any time soon, he thought to himself; the battery acid masquerading as coffee from the last diner was doing its job. That, or the adrenaline that still coursed through his veins.

Charlie shook his head, and winced at the movement. "I'm feeling kind of queasy," he protested. "It gets worse when I shut my eyes."

Don cast a quick concerned glance toward him, the word 'concussion' floating through his brain. "Your head still hurt?"

Charlie nodded and winced again, then sighed, and in spite of his words leaned his head back and closed his eyes, a slight frown furrowing his brow. Don glanced at him again, and felt a sick feeling in his own stomach. As the events of the night had spun out, he'd reacted, going on gut reaction, moving instead of thinking. Now there was time to think, and he was second-guessing himself. 'I'm sorry, buddy,' he thought, with another glance at the wan face beside him. 'I never should have pulled you into this.'

One thing was certain, as much as he was regretting their predicament; they couldn't go back - not until they found out who was behind this and why. Until they did, they would be outcasts, fugitives.

He gripped the steering wheel, and kept his eyes resolutely on Interstate 15N as it unwound into the darkness.

**…………………………………………….**

End Chapter 7


	8. Which Way Did They Go?

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 8: ****Which Way Did They Go?**

J. Everett Tuttle was wakened from sleep at 4:30 in the morning by the soft chime of his cell phone. He came awake almost fully coherent; a light sleeper, he always did. He recognized Derek Mace's phone number as he flipped the phone open. "I've been waiting for a report," he said. "The task is complete, then?"

Mace's voice was harsh, disgruntled. "No. There were – issues. We need to talk. I'm on my way there."

Fifteen minutes later Tuttle met Mace outside his study, and ushered him inside. No sooner than the door was shut, Tuttle demanded, "What is it?"

Mace's cruel, hook-nosed face was dark. "They botched the attempt. They tried to set up an ambush in the professor's office. There were three of them – the leader stayed in the van while two others went to the office. The man in the van saw the Eppes men arrive, and then several minutes later, they came out – which was definitely not the plan. They were in a hurry, the younger one looked a little shaken, and the agent had blood on his face. They jumped in Eppes' SUV and took off. Our man considered following them, but he couldn't raise his men on their phones, so he decided he needed to check on them instead. They were both knocked out – he didn't stick around long, but he could see from the doorway that one of them was handcuffed to a desk. He figured he'd never get them out of there without getting caught by security, so he took off. They were using one of our vans, so it was probably good that he got the hell out of there. He saw the professor's computer lying in the stairwell – he did take that."

Tuttle's face was livid. "What kind of idiots did you hire, anyway?"

Mace grimaced. "I went through Sammy Porter. He usually lines up competent people. And it gets worse. Those two men are now in custody – one is at the hospital with a concussion, and the other is at FBI headquarters."

Tuttle stared at him for a moment. "How much do they know? Can they be connected to us?"

"They don't know why they were making the hit – we told them just to get rid of them, and take their computers. If they talk, they can finger their leader – the man in the van – his name is Jose Churasco. Jose can give them Sammy, and Sammy can give them me."

"We need to break that chain," said Tuttle, thoughtfully.

"Already done," said Mace expressionlessly. "Churasco was killed outside a bar about an hour ago – it'll look like an apparent robbery."

"Maybe we should take out Sammy, too."

Mace pondered that. "I don't know. Sammy won't squeal – he has too much invested in this, himself. And I don't even know how they'd get to him – the two guys in custody didn't even deal with him – they dealt only with Churasco."

Tuttle grunted in affirmation. "Yeah, you're right. Sometimes less is more." His eyes narrowed. "So where did the Eppes brothers end up? They go to the cops?"

Mace shook his head with a bemused expression. "That's the funny thing. We had a GPS tracker hidden in a recessed area in the undercarriage of Don's SUV. We tracked the SUV to a chop shop in East L.A. When our man went in to chat with the owner, he found that the Eppes men had just left there – they traded the SUV in for a Crown Vic, 2006, dark green. They had a VIN number, but the morons didn't know the plate numbers. We think the Eppes brothers skipped town."

Tuttle looked alarmed. "Skipped town?" His eyes trailed away from Mace's face to rest unseeing on the wall of the den as he processed that information. "That means either they know or suspect that someone in law enforcement is involved." He looked at Mace. "Otherwise, they would have called it in."

Mace nodded, grimly. "That's what I thought, too. I thought you should know, so you could call your contact as soon as possible." He paused. "We got Charlie Eppes' computer from Churasco, and I sent a man over to Don Eppes apartment for his. They're both gone – we dumped them in an incinerator. If the cops look into this, they won't know what they were working on."

Tuttle turned his back and headed for his desk – a signal of dismissal. "I don't need to tell you that we need to find them – as soon as possible."

Mace backed toward the door. "It ain't gonna be easy – they apparently ditched their phones, and we don't have plate numbers. We got no way of tracking them. We're on it though, and I got Nardek involved. He's monitoring our computer systems – if they try to make inquiries again, we'll know."

Tuttle nodded peremptorily, and Mace took his cue and shut the door. As soon as he was out, Tuttle dialed. The phone was answered immediately, and before Tuttle could speak, a dry voice on the other said, "I heard. How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as it seems," said Tuttle. "The two men in custody can't give them anyone other than their leader, and he's already been taken care of – that's if they even talk. They don't know the reason for the hit, and we destroyed both computers. Here's the bad part – Don Eppes didn't call it in – he and his brother took off, instead."

There was dead silence on the other end for a moment. "Then they suspect."

"Yeah, but no more than that," said Tuttle. "They can't have names, or proof of anything, because then they would have come forward with it. I'm thinking they don't know who to turn to right now, so they're going underground until they figure something out."

"We need to get to them."

"We're working on it."

"All right. I'll see if I can do some damage control on my end. Keep me informed."

The line disconnected, and Tuttle flipped his phone shut, thoughtfully, his brows drawn in a scowl. The Eppes brothers were becoming his own personal albatross, the bane of his existence. He would make certain, he vowed, that he would put their persecution of him to an end.

**......................................................................**

* * *

David Sinclair stood watching the sun come over the rooftops of the office building in downtown Los Angeles, through the windows of the L.A. FBI offices. It had been a long, sleepless night, but he was anything but sleepy. His SAC and his younger brother had vanished, and in Don's absence, David was in charge. The responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and added to the leaden feeling in his gut as he turned and faced the group gathered in the conference room. Agents Nikki Betancourt, Liz Warner, and Colby Granger shared the conference room table with FBI Assistant Director Wright and Lieutenant Gary Walker from LAPD.

"It smells like an abduction to me," said Nikki, who was never shy about offering her opinions. "We haven't found Don's SUV, Charlie's computer is gone and the cell phones were dumped. The two guys we picked up claim the Eppes men overpowered them, and then Don and Charlie were attacked and overpowered themselves by four others. I'm guessing they forced Don and Charlie into the SUV."

Colby shook his head. "But why? If they were working on something, wouldn't we have known about it? And we have yet to see any evidence that there were four others involved."

"We've got both men in custody, in two different places, and they're both saying the same thing – that they were robbing offices, looking for computer equipment, the Eppes brothers walked in on them, and then the four men jumped the Eppes brothers," Nikki countered.

"Still, they could be lying. They were both conscious when we found them," said Liz Warner, thoughtfully. "They might have had time to coordinate their stories before the security guard found them."

David looked at Wright, as Walker suddenly reached for a pocket, pulling out a vibrating cell phone, and stepped out of the office. "We're trying to verify their statements," said David. "We've got men going through the office itself, looking at forensic evidence and other going through building security tapes now, looking for any sign of the four men – the building has a camera at the main entrance. There's a camera on the parking lot, also, but it was disabled an hour or so before the time of the attack."

Liz frowned. "Why wouldn't they disable the camera inside the building, also?"

"Didn't know it was there," said Colby. "I checked it out – it was pretty well camouflaged. What I want to know is-,"

His speech was cut short suddenly by Walker, who burst back into the room. "We got a hit on the GPS trace for the SUV! It's showing stationary at a location in East L.A.!"

**…………………………………………………………….**

Amita Ramanujan walked slowly up to the front door of the Eppes Craftsman home, and knocked. Ordinarily, she came and went without knocking; she had her own key, and spent as much time at the Craftsman with Charlie as she did at her own apartment. The early hour, and the fact that only Alan would be there, however, prompted her to knock, and wait.

A minute or two later, Alan opened the door, and blinked at her with eyes red-rimmed by fatigue. "Hi Alan," she said. "I thought I'd stop by before heading in to campus."

"Come in, dear." Alan held the door open for her, and she could see the lines of tension and weariness in his body – she was sure she looked the same. "I thought you were going to London – wasn't that today? And aren't classes over?"

"I canceled my trip," she said, trying to swallow the lump in her throat that his kind voice generated. "And yes, classes are over, but I need to clean out my office, and I thought it would be best to keep my mind occupied." She looked at him, her dark eyes anxious. "Have you heard anything new?"

"No, nothing for the last couple of hours." He looked at her, his expression softening. "Apparently you haven't slept much either. Would you like some tea, or coffee?"

"Coffee, please," she said gratefully, "the stronger the better."

"I'm sorry for calling you last night," he said, as they both made for the kitchen. "In retrospect, I should have waited until morning – at least you would have had a decent night's sleep."

Amita shook her head emphatically. "No – I'm glad you called me. It gave me a chance to call the airline." She swallowed the lump that threatened to rise again in her throat, and reached thankfully for the mug of coffee that Alan had poured. She took a sip, feeling the warm liquid course through her, and was about to take another when the faint noise of a car door slamming made both of their heads come up, and they stared at each other.

Alan stepped briskly through the kitchen door and to the living room window, and she followed, stopping short as he said, his voice sounding odd, "David and Colby are here."

She felt her heart drop. '_Why would they be here in person?_' she thought, _'unless…_'

Somehow, she found herself seated on the sofa next to Alan, clutching her mug tightly, and Colby and David faced them from two chairs. David had pulled his forward. "We haven't found them yet," he said, and her heart gave an odd little flutter of mingled fear and relief. If they hadn't been found, there was still a chance they might be alive… David was still talking, and she tried to focus.

"…got a hit on the GPS locator for Don's SUV. We tracked it to a chop shop in East L.A – Colby and I just came from there. The man who ran it was taken into custody, and was willing to talk in order to get whatever deal the D.A. will give him. He says that Don and Charlie showed up last night and traded in the SUV on a hot car, and took off."

Alan blinked. "What?"

"That's what _we_ said." David grimaced. "It didn't sound plausible, but the man insisted. He didn't see anyone with them – no sign that they were being forced to make the deal, and they were both there together, although there is a possibility that they were being coerced somehow."

Amita's mind finally kicked into gear. "Did you get a description of the car?"

"Yeah," said Colby. "Dark green 2006 Crown Victoria, but no plate numbers. We have a multiple state APB out for it."

David looked at them. "Do either of you remember anything unusual in the last few days? Did they mention any odd phone calls, anything that was worrying them?"

Alan spoke up, his brow furrowed. "No. Could this be related to a case you were working on?"

David shook his head. "Not that we know of. None that Charlie was involved in, anyway. He hasn't been working anything for us, lately."

Amita blinked. "But he was. He was up late the night before, and said he was working on something for Don. He had some kind of search algorithm running all night."

David and Colby stared at her, and then at each other. "Well, that's news to me," said David finally. "If Don was working something, we didn't know about it. Do you have any idea what it was?"

"No," said Amita regretfully. "I didn't ask." Her face brightened a bit. "I can run a check on his computer – try to find what he was working on."

David's brow was furrowed. "We're not sure where it is. The surveillance cameras showed him coming in the door of the office building with his computer bag, but our men haven't found his laptop at Cal Sci."

"I got a phone call while we were still at the chop shop," said Colby. "The guy running through the surveillance tapes had an update. He said Charlie and Don definitely left under their own power, but Charlie didn't have his computer with him. A few minutes later, another man came in, and when he left, he was carrying a computer bag that looked like Charlie's. I called and put out a GPS trace on it, and we're trying to ID the man who took it."

Alan was frowning in confusion. "I don't understand this. If the attack was related to something they were working on, why would they leave? Why wouldn't they have reported this?"

David spoke slowly. "We don't know. There's still a chance that they didn't leave voluntarily – or maybe their departure is unrelated to what they were working on. We might be dealing with two different parties here – one that was after what was on their computers, and one that was after them for some other reason." He looked at Amita. "Until we find Charlie's computer, maybe you can use Don's. I'll send someone over to get it."

"Yes – anything," said Amita earnestly. "Anything I can do to help, just ask."

**…………………………………………………………………**

Charlie grunted at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and blinked, wincing as the early morning sunlight hit his eyes. Don's voice intruded on his sleep-fogged consciousness. "Charlie, wake up."

He sat up stiffly in the passenger seat, and looked around him through eyes narrowed to slits against the sunlight. They were in the parking lot of a diner, in what appeared to be a small town off the highway. "Where are we?"

"Cove Fort, Utah," said Don. "We're at the junction of I-15 and I-70. It's about eight in the morning. I need you to drive for a while, buddy. I thought we'd stop in here, get some breakfast, and get you some coffee. You think you're up for it?"

Charlie opened his eyes a little further, tentatively. His head still ached, but some of the nausea from the night before had subsided. He vaguely remembered waking from time to time during the ride, but he'd slept for much of it – nearly six hours. He turned his head to look at Don. His brother looked whipped; his eyes red from fatigue, lines of weariness in his face. "Yeah, I can drive." He pulled himself slowly from the Crown Vic, which now sported black paint; he vaguely remembered Don pulling off on a deserted road during the night, taping door handles and windows, and spraying the car with the paint they'd bought. It wasn't the best paint job, but it was effective.

They got a corner booth in the diner and both ordered the house special – a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast for a ridiculously low price, with coffee for Charlie. The spot was secluded enough for conversation, and Charlie, after several swallows of coffee, said, "You know, I'm thinking I need to call a friend in the NSA." He glanced around to make sure that the waitress was keeping her distance. "You remember – Bob Tompkins. Maybe we should just get hold of him, and let him know what's going on."

Don was silent for a moment. "I don't know, Charlie. We don't know what's involved here, or how high up this goes. I hate to call anyone when we don't have more facts."

"Oh, come on," said Charlie said, his voice dripping with skepticism, "I'd have a hard time believing he was involved, too."

"Maybe not, but he could just blow it off, say we're being paranoid."

"Maybe we _are_ being paranoid. I think it's worth a shot," said Charlie. He broke off as the waitress came with their breakfasts, and kept silent as they started in on their eggs.

About halfway through the plate, Don sighed. "Okay – you can try to call him. Here's the deal. I'll drive to the next town on I-70 – it heads due east, but we aren't going that way. You can stop and make and call from a payphone. If it's traced, it'll look to them like we're headed east on 70. After you're done, we'll head back north."

Charlie gazed at him, puzzled. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Idaho."

"Idaho? Why Idaho?"

"Why not?" At Charlie's bemused expression, Don continued. "I really don't know – I just want to put about a thousand miles between us and L.A. – out in the middle of nowhere. Colby's from there – he used to talk about some of his summer jobs. I thought maybe we could find some seasonal work up there somewhere."

Charlie grinned. "What are we going to do – pick potatoes?"

Don speared a chunk of hash browns on his fork and waved it at him. "Don't laugh – that might be an option."

They left a tip – but not an unduly large one; they didn't want to give the waitress any reason to remember them, fondly or otherwise. Don drove to the next stopping point, a town called Elsinore about sixteen miles east on I-70, and they stopped there for gas. Don stepped inside to consult a map, while Charlie headed for a payphone – a rather battered looking phone mounted on a short stubby concrete post. He'd gotten change at the restaurant, and loaded the phone pay slot, dialing Tompkins' phone from memory. Numbers had a tendency to stick in his head, especially important phone numbers, like Tomkins'. His secretary answered.

"Hi, Sue, Charlie Eppes," said Charlie. "I need to speak with Bob. Is he available?"

"Oh, hello, Charlie," said Sue. "I haven't talked to you in ages. Bob's on another line right now. Can you call back in, say, a half hour?"

Charlie hesitated. "That might be kind of hard. This is pretty important."

"I'm afraid the call he's on is important, too – it's Director Montague from the FBI, and he said it was urgent."

Charlie's heart stopped momentarily, and his vocal cords froze. Montague was talking with Bob Tompkins – maybe Don was right – maybe this went up higher than he thought.

"Charlie?"

"Uh – okay, Sue. Never mind. I'll call him back later."

"Okay, Charlie, do you want me to tell him you called?"

"N-no – it's okay. I'll just catch him later. Thanks, Sue." He hung up the phone, and headed for the car, where Don was waiting in the passenger seat.

"Did you get hold of Tompkins?"

"He was on another line," said Charlie, quietly. "His secretary told me to call back."

"Okay," said Don, as Charlie shut the driver's side door. "We're going to continue east on I-70, then take state route 28 north. It connects back up with I-15 at Nephi. Maybe we can try again before we leave I-70." He broke off, staring at Charlie's somber expression. "What?"

Charlie looked at him, his dark eyes larger than usual. "I'm not going to try again. I think you may be right – we don't know how far up this goes. Tompkins couldn't talk to me because he was on the phone with Jim Montague."

He left Don staring at him, as he swung his gaze forward and turned the key in the ignition.

* * *

**…………………………………………………………………**

End Chapter 8


	9. Cheap Chad

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 9: ****Cheap Chad**

Charlie turned off in Idaho Falls over seven hours later, and pulled the car into a parking lot in the quaint downtown area. He stretched wearily, and leaned over and shook Don, who was slumped against the passenger door, dead asleep. "Don – wake up."

He watched with slight amusement as Don woke and blinked groggily at his surroundings. "We're in Idaho Falls," said Charlie. "It's around three p.m. and we've driven almost 950 miles. Where exactly in Idaho did you want to go?"

Don rubbed his face and glanced around them. There were in downtown Idaho Falls, a small city with a metro area that boasted a population a bit over 100,000. In front of them wound the Snake River, an expanse of clear water over brown-colored rock, and a couple of hundred yards upstream, they could see the broad waterfall that gave the city its name. "I don't know," Don admitted. "Let's get out and walk around for a bit."

They ducked in and out of the local downtown shops, stopping at a small grocer's and picking up two pre-wrapped deli sandwiches, eating them as they strolled. Don checked bulletin boards in bars and small stores, and finally jabbed his finger at one posting. "Here – look at this," he said. "These campgrounds nearby – Colby said he used to work at a campground. He said a lot of them use seasonal help in the summertime."

Charlie cocked his head at the board. "There are some 'help wanted' listings at restaurants and other places right here in town," he said. "Why not check here, first?"

Don shook his head and glanced around, noticed a clerk watching them from behind the counter, and pulled Charlie out onto the sidewalk. "Too populated," he said quietly. "Too many people to see us - and the car. We need to get out in the boondocks somewhere, and stash the car. The less it's on the road the better. Besides, I can't think of a cheaper place to stay than a campground – we can buy a tent if we have to. There are three campgrounds in a town called Heise – it must be near here somewhere. Do we need to stop for gas again?"

Charlie grimaced and nodded. "Yeah – that car guzzles gas." He sighed despondently. "We're down to a little over $150 dollars."

"All right, let's hit a gas station, but don't fill it up. I'll duck inside and check a map, find out where Heise is."

Heise, it turned out, was only about twenty miles away, off state route 26. It was a tiny town near a section of the Snake River, and boasted only a half dozen streets. Don and Charlie stopped at a small general store, and consulted a bulletin board. The campgrounds all had postings on the board with directions, but no 'help wanted' listings. Don frowned, and Charlie said, "It _is_ June. Maybe their positions are filled already."

Don sighed. "Well, it doesn't hurt to ask. Why don't you pick up a few necessities – as cheap as you can get them? We could use toothbrushes, razors." He glanced down at Charlie's clothing – Charlie had left his tweed blazer in the car, and underneath it, he had been wearing a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers – Don surmised he was wearing more casual dress than usual because classes were over. Don was wearing jeans himself – he'd changed before going over to Charlie's …yesterday? Was it only yesterday evening? It seemed like an age ago, already. "We're gonna need a couple of sweatshirts, if you can find 'em cheap. It gets cold up here at night."

Charlie shivered a little; even the afternoon air streaming through the screen doorway of the tiny store seemed a little crisp. "Only at night?" he complained good-naturedly. "Okay. I saw a yard sale a block or two back. Maybe they have something."

Don nodded. "I'll take the car and run out to the campgrounds, then come back and pick you up."

He struck out at the first two – Harry's Hideaway and Mountain Retreat campgrounds both turned him away. As Don pulled the car into the third campground, Snake River Lodge, his heart sank. It was neat and orderly, with the owner's home right on the premises, but it was just a bit smaller than the other two – if they hadn't been hiring; he doubted this one would be. Still, he parked and trudged wearily up wooden steps onto a wooden porch, and pulled open a creaking screen door with a fraying screen.

A plump, dour-looking woman of around fifty looked up, and tried to arrange her features in a pleasant expression. Don got the impression that anything other than sour was a stretch for her. "Can I help you?" Her eyes ran over him appraisingly.

"I was wondering if you had any need of hired help," said Don.

Her eyes narrowed. "Who's askin'?"

"I am," said Don. It took him just an instant to remember the name on his new ID and he covered his hesitation by reaching for his wallet. "Manning." He showed her his driver's license. "Dave Manning." Her face twisted as she peered at it. "Why you lookin' for work in the middle of nowhere, Dave Manning?"

Don grinned at her ruefully, turned on the charm. "Fact is, I'm about out of cash, and out of gas." He put a more serious expression on his face. "Lost my job at the Van Nuys plant six months ago. Lost my apartment about a month ago – landlord locked me out – couldn't even get my stuff. I've been workin' my way north ever since."

Her faced twitched, tried to fight off an expression of sympathy, and lost. Don could tell she liked him – he could read it in her eyes, but she was trying her best to look unmoved. She sniffed. "As it happens, I lost my handyman yesterday – damned idiot got picked up on a DUI last night – ran into a deputy's car, of all things." Her eyes narrowed. "You don't drink, do ye?"

"No ma'am."

She gave him a brusque nod. "Okay then. My name's Doris Sackett. I pay six dollars an hour with room and board, seven if you don't need room and board." She peered at him.

"Uh, room and board would be good," said Don, hastily.

"It ain't much," she cautioned. "There's a small room at the back of this house, back behind the kitchen. I lock it off at night, so don't get any ideas of roamin' the house, comin' in to raid the fridge or watch TV." She straightened, flaunting an ample bosom. "A woman alone jist can't be too careful these days."

"Yes, ma'am." He smiled at her, and she eyed him suspiciously, trying to see if he was mocking her. Apparently she decided he wasn't, because she dimpled at him suddenly, showing a set of surprising even, white teeth.

"Okay, then, when can you start?"

"Anytime. Tonight. Tomorrow."

"All right – you can move in tonight, start tomorrow at six a.m. I'll show you your room."

She waddled out from behind the desk, and he followed behind her, through the office into a parlor, through that and a neat, spacious kitchen, and into a dim narrow hallway that led off the kitchen. She paused and opened a door. "That's the lavatory," she announced unnecessarily. "You kin use that one – I don't need the help usin' the camp showers, and you certainly ain't gonna use mine."

Don glanced inside – it was small, with a little shower tucked in a corner, and the linoleum on the floor was worn, but it looked clean. "That's good, ma'am."

"Cut the 'ma'am' crap," she said brusquely. "Call me Doris." Her eyes were twitching, and for a moment, Don thought a bug or a piece of dust had flown into them, and then he realized that she was batting her eyelashes at him.

He grinned, laying it on thick – he had another favor to ask her. "Okay, Doris, thanks."

She opened the next door. "This is your room."

The bedroom, like the bathroom, was small. A cot with a mattress sat in one corner, next to a battered wooden nightstand that contained two tiny drawers. A rod with wire hangers hung in one corner, and a wooden chair and small table occupied the other. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and cast a pallid glow on the room when Doris flipped the switch.

The cot was made up military style, with a woolen blanket tucked in neatly around the edges, and Don frowned a bit. There was only room in that bed for one of them, and no room for another cot.

Doris was watching him. "Problem?"

"It's just, uh, my cousin's traveling with me," said Don. "He's out of work too – he's a few years younger than me, and I've always kind of watched over him. You wouldn't know anyone else who's hiring around here, would you?"

Her face had closed again, suspiciously, but she said, "Harry needs someone."

Don's brow furrowed. "At Harry's Hideaway? I checked there already – the girl at the desk told me they weren't hiring."

Doris sniffed. "Oh, that girl at the desk don't know anythin' – she's clueless. Harry was just whining to me the other day that he needed someone extra. Oh, he has a handyman – he wouldn't have anyplace for your cousin to stay 'cause that's already taken, but he says he needs an extra set of hands. He's prob'ly too busy with that -," her lip quivered, "-that young floozy he took up with." A big fat tear had formed in her eye, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand.

"Aw, now, what's the matter, Doris?" asked Don, sympathy, a bit of it real, dripping from his voice.

"Harry -," she choked, then sniffed again, "- Harry's my ex. He dumped me for a skinny little redhead from Idaho Falls." She wiped her eyes again. "Tell your cousin to go to Harry, and tell him I sent him. Harry owes me, big time."

Her gaze wandered back to the little room; she looked desolate, and at that moment, Don felt truly sorry for her. Then the sour look snapped back onto her face, and she sniffed again. "I got another mattress you kin throw on the floor in here, until your cousin finds a place to stay. I ain't feedin' him, though – I can't afford board for two of you. He'll have to find his own grub. Harry has a big outfit – camp kitchen, camp cook. I'm sure your cousin – what's his name? – can eat there."

"Chad Manning," said Don. "His name is Chad."

**..........................................................................**

* * *

David, Liz, and Nikki sat dispiritedly at the conference room table late that afternoon, exhaustion on each of their faces. They perked up slightly as Colby entered, then slumped again as he shook his head. "No dice," he said. "They aren't changing their story."

Liz hadn't been there when the forensics came back, so Colby elaborated for her benefit. "We got some of the results back from the lab. The handcuffs and zip ties were department issue, and had Don's prints on them. The bust that we found on the floor had a bit of hair and blood on it from the perp in the hospital, and had Charlie's fingerprints on it. No other prints in the room other than those of the perps, and Don's and Charlie's. To me, it looks like it was just the two of them, and Don and Charlie fought them off."

"But-," prompted Liz.

"Both perps are saying that they tried to fight off Don and Charlie, got knocked out momentarily, and woke to find they'd been restrained. They said Don was pulling out his cell phone when the four men attacked." Colby sighed. "Their story doesn't make sense, because we have video of Don and Charlie walking out by themselves. The only question is why would the perps make something like that up?"

"Either it's true," said David, "or they're trying to obscure something."

"Obscure what?" asked Nikki impatiently. "I don't get it."

"I don't know," said David slowly. "Maybe they're not trying to obscure what happened; maybe they were trying cast doubt on what was _going_ to happen. Maybe they're trying to send us down a wrong path, chasing four men who don't exist."

"You think they're surmising that whoever hired them to hit Don and Charlie is going to try again, and they don't want us around when they do it," said Liz, quietly.

"Yeah," said David, heavily. "The only question is – did it already happen? Were they abducted? Or are Don and Charlie really on the run? And if so, why in the hell are they running? Why not come to us?"

**..........................................................................**

* * *

Charlie piled into the car, excitedly detailing his purchases. "I got soap, razors, shaving cream, deodorant, toothbrushes, and toothpaste at the store," he said. "Then I walked down to that yard sale. I found us sweatshirts – a buck apiece, and two pairs of sweatpants, same price. Two T-shirts for fifty cents each." He plowed through a bag on his lap, and held up a cellophane package triumphantly. "Underwear – never been opened – another buck," he crowed. "Then I asked the lady if she had any towels. She looked at me kind of funny, but then she went into her house and came out with two towels, and told me just to take 'em. They're old, but they're clean."

Don cast him a perturbed look out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know Charlie's net worth, but he knew it was a lot. "You're scaring me. I had no idea you were so cheap."

Charlie pouted. "I'm not cheap."

"Who else would walk around with an eight thousand-dollar check in his wallet and not cash it for weeks? You're cheap."

"No, I'm not. I was too busy -,"

Don tossed him a teasing grin. "Yes, you are, and it's coming in handy right now. How do you know that the stuff's even going to fit?"

"It'll probably fit you better than it fits me," Charlie admitted, sending a shy grin back as he realized Don was joking. "So you got a job, huh? Six an hour, you said?"

Don nodded, "And a place to flop. I got a line on one for you, too. Another campground called Harry's Hideaway – we're heading there now. It's about ten miles from Snake River Ranch."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "Ten miles – they had a bike at that yard sale. Maybe we should go back and get that."

Don frowned. "Yeah, I didn't think about getting you back and forth. Ten miles is pretty far on a bike, when you've got to do it twice in a day."

"Well, we can't use the car," Charlie reasoned. "Takes too much gas for what they'll be paying us, and besides, we should keep it out of sight. I used to ride to Cal Sci and back every day."

"That wasn't ten miles."

Charlie shrugged and looked at the green forest flitting past them. "It's summer, and it's beautiful out here. It's not a big deal." The sign for Harry's Hideaway pulled into view and he straightened in his seat. "What's the guy's name again?"

Don glanced at him, drily. "Harry."

Charlie made a face at him. "Ha ha. No last name?"

Don pursed his lips. "I dunno. Doris' last name is Sackett. I don't know if she changed it after the divorce or not. Why don't you just worry about your name – your new one."

"I know. Manning," Charlie sighed. "And _Chad_. What kind of name is Chad, anyway?"

"Lenny Green told us it's better to start off our first names with the same letter if we could. If we started to screw up, we might be able to fix it in time," said Don innocently. "You have to admit, there aren't too many names that start with 'Ch,' _Chad_."

He tried to keep a straight face, but Charlie was staring at him suspiciously, and he couldn't help it – a grin surfaced. "You -," sputtered Charlie, and Don threw back his head and laughed, for the first time in days.

**..........................................................................**

* * *

Charlie's fingers itched.

He stood respectfully in front of Harry Sackett's desk and hungrily eyed the laptop. It was certainly beyond anything he hoped to find in a campground in Podunk, Idaho. What he wouldn't give right now to get his hands on...

"...Heise," Harry said, and Charlie visibly jerked, wondering if he'd said "Podunk" aloud.

"Pardon me," he responded, a bit embarrassed. "I was just admiring your laptop. That's a Latitude XT2, isn't it?"

Harry started to warm up to the curly-haired stranger. Until that precise moment, he had accepted his presence only reluctantly -- Doris had called him and guilted him into hiring the kid sight-unseen, and it pissed him off. Never should have married that bitch. Now, he smiled brightly at Charlie. "Yes!" he confirmed, waving his hand over his computer as if it were a prize on one of those TV game shows. "Paid nearly five grand for it," he announced smugly. "I was just saying that you'll enjoy the summer here in Heise."

Charlie nodded, still eyeing the computer. "I'm sure I will," he answered distractedly. "What is that -- a 20-inch screen?"

Harry leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. "Oh, yeah," he breathed proudly. "Widescreen, black flat panel. He tipped himself forward and dropped his hands, letting one caress the keyboard lovingly. "This here is one of the reasons I left Doris." He snorted. "Oh, she's convinced it's all Sally's fault, but fact is, I didn't even meet her until near the end; she was just the final straw, ya know?" Charlie nodded silently and Harry continued his presentation. "I got 5 gigs SRAM on this baby," he confided secretively. "Productivity Package. WiFi, Bluetooth -- had the whole campground made WiFi compatible." He snorted derisively. "When I was down at Snake River Lodge, she only let me WiFi the main house, and bitched to high-heaven about that. Doris always said I was just throwing money away, that I didn't need all these 'toys', she called 'em. Ignoramus."

Charlie wondered if his duties helping the campground's handyman would allow him much access to the main office. "I'll bet a lot of your customers appreciate the WiFi access," he guessed.

Harry stood, hitching up his jeans until they were approaching his pectorals. "That's what _I_ told 'er," he announced emphatically. He sighed, then winked at Charlie. "Well, it don't matter no more, I guess. If she wants to lose potential customers to me, that's just fine...." He leaned toward Charlie conspiratorially, and Charlie involuntarily leaned back, the scent of garlic suddenly nearly overwhelming. "This system has been good," he confided, "but I'm upgrading. Already got an order in for a Precision M6400 Covet. Should be up and running in a few days." He looked around his office happily. "I do love a good computer, don't you?"

Charlie smiled and parroted Harry's earlier affirmation. "Oh, yeah!"

Harry hitched up his pants again. "Well, let me take you down to meet Matt; he's my full-time handyman. I figure we can keep you busy at least 35, 40 hours a week up till the 4th of July; might go part-time after that." He paused at the door to let Charlie exit first. "What kind of computer do you have?"

Charlie did not have to falsify his despondency. "I...had to sell it, so I don't have one right now," he admitted, as he stepped out onto the porch.

Harry clapped him on the shoulder with a huge, friendly hand that nearly drove him to his knees. "Damn shame," he commiserated. "Maybe we can keep you busy around here long enough to get yourself another one."

They were passing the Crown Victoria now, which was parked on the hard-packed dirt driveway, and Charlie grinned at Don, who was leaning on the hood, as they went by. "I sure hope so," he agreed.

**......................................................................................**

Assistant Director Phillip Wright sat in the near-darkness of his office and wondered what he should do.

It was late, and only the light from a small desktop lamp lit the room. He knew that chances were very good that all or most of Don's team was still hard at work downstairs in the bullpen; he felt guilty for not telling them what he knew, about the electronic wire transfer fraud that Don had been pursuing on his own. Wright had been a little surprised when West Coast Director Montague had reacted so strongly, and so negatively when Don had asked to pick up the case, but he had chalked it up to the Director's having a bad day and moved on -- after passing on some of the flack to Eppes, of course.

Now, he wasn't sure what to think. Or, rather, he was, but wasn't very comfortable thinking it. Montague had been on the phone hours after the altercation in Charlie Eppes' office; Wright didn't even know how he had found out so quickly that the Eppes brothers were missing. He had pledged all sorts of resources -- both governmental and personal -- to find the brothers, which didn't sit right. It hadn't been that long, after all, since Montague had been less than complimentary of Don Eppes, and issued a direct order to cease and desist, which in this office was tantamount to a disciplinary action.

He stood, sighed, and wandered toward the windows of his corner office. He looked down at the traffic below and thought about what he knew, and what he could safely assume. To begin with, he knew that he had spent nearly 20 years as a field agent in the FBI before he allowed himself to be kicked upstairs, and during that time, had developed some pretty righteous instincts; secondarily, he knew that those instincts were screaming at him right now. They were telling him that Don Eppes was one of the best agents he had ever had under his command -- one of the best agents he had ever worked with, in all of his career. Sure, he could be moody and volatile, and he bent some rules so hard that they broke (sleeping with a junior agent in his command, for example), but age and experience were mellowing some of those tendencies. Wright knew that Don Eppes was good at his job; sometimes scary-good.

Now came the hard part: the assumptions. He had to decide if his assumptions held water. He assumed, first of all, that Don had continued working on the case even when he was ordered off -- and that he had solicited help from his brother; both solid, safe assumptions. Furthermore, he assumed there was a reason the brothers had decided to go underground without contacting any member of Don's team, or any of Charlie's considerable contacts; Don must not be sure, at this point, who to trust. That meant that he also did not trust Wright himself -- or Montague. Eppes would be extremely cautious if his brother's safety was involved, that truth was beyond assumption; Wright _knew_ this, and that it would be almost impossible to find him, if he did not want to be found. Thinking about it all, he suddenly knew something else; knew it to the core of his gut; knew it as completely as he knew his own name.

Phillip Wright did not trust Jim Montague, either.

**………………………………………………….**

Don pushed the 25-dollar ten-speed bicycle toward the trunk of the Crown Victoria. Charlie followed closely behind, fumbling with the little money they had left. Don opened the trunk and lifted the bike to stow it inside. "I talked to that little red-headed Sally while you and Harry were going through the campground," he said. "I asked if you got lunch as part of the job – Doris includes it down at her campground -- and she seemed to think that Harry operates on the same terms with his employees." He slammed the trunk and turned to look apologetically at his brother. "We can share what she leaves me for breakfast and dinner, but it's not going to be much." He frowned. "I hate to think about you riding that far every morning on only half a bagel."

Charlie shook a fistful of dollars in Don's face. "This is all we have left, Don!" he hissed. "Less than a hundred. And I didn't put that much gas in the car, so if we're probably almost out, again."

Don ran a hand over his head and leaned on the trunk of the car. "It's tight, Buddy, I know that. Once we get back to camp, we'll park the car on a little side road somewhere; no more driving until we get paid. Doris pays every week, and we won't need to pay room or board out of that, so we can save almost all of it -- between the two of us, we'll be bringing in over four hundred a week. I figure we'll have enough for a decent computer by the end of the summer."

Charlie gaped at him, aghast. "_The end of the summer?_ What about school? If we can't get back to the search until the end of summer..."

Don dipped his head to stare miserably at his shoes. "Trust me, I don't like it any better than you do," he muttered. "Whoever is running this show will spend all that time covering their tracks -- we'll have to start all over."

Charlie blinked. "Maybe not," he ventured, and Don whipped his head up to look at him. Charlie shrugged. "I'm supposed to call Amita in a few days; maybe there's something she can do to help." He perked up a little at the promise of contact with his fiancée. "Plus, Harry has a new computer on order, even though his current laptop is sweet -- exactly what we need. Maybe I can talk him into selling it to me. If I work really hard while he's waiting for the new one, maybe he'll agree to pay me with the computer instead of money."

Don looked cautiously interested. "That's an idea," he finally agreed. "But if you're going to work that hard, that's another reason half a bagel isn't enough breakfast." He looked guiltily at the money still clutched in Charlie's fist. "I think we should stop at a market on the way back to the campground; get some protein bars or something."

Charlie shook his head and offered a compromise. "Too expensive," he insisted. "I'll agree to a loaf of bread and a jar of jam." Charlie looked over his shoulder at the yard sale as Don stood and prepared to walk around to the front of the car. "In fact," Charlie mused, "let me talk to the towel lady. I saw a lot of wild blackberry bushes out by the campgrounds -- and she looks like she knows how to make jam."

**………………………………………………….**

End, Chapter 9


	10. Weary

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 10: ** **Weary**

Amita was weary as she drove toward her apartment. It was more than simple exhaustion. She fought the cumulative effects of a busy school year, a frightening kidnapping, days of not knowing where Charlie was, disappointment that she was not going to get to see her parents this summer...she was weary. Heart-weary, soul-weary.

She had been staying at the Craftsman with Alan. She knew that Charlie would not want his father to be alone. Besides, she was worried about the older man herself. Both sons disappearing like they did had hit him like a blow to his solar plexus. He wasn't sleeping, and was starting to exhibit signs of heartache and sleep deprivation. This morning he had left a kitchen towel on top of the stove when he turned it on, resulting in a small fire. The evening before, Larry (who was also staying at the Craftsman) had barely stopped Alan in time, when he had almost bitten into a salt shaker. Apparently, he had picked it up from its position near the pizza the trio had had delivered, and just automatically put it into his mouth. She resolved to hurry back as she remembered the incidents. While Larry was at the house with Alan, she had run by her apartment building to pick up the mail from the lobby; but Larry was scheduled to teach during Summer Session, and needed to go by CalSci to work on his syllabi -- a task he had been putting off -- she wanted to get back in plenty of time for him to do that.

She looked impatiently through a stack of credit card offers and bills before she reached into the box one last time to make sure she hadn't missed something. The box was situated above her head, in a row near the top of the mailboxes; even standing on her tiptoes, she couldn't really see inside. Her fingertips brushed against something else, and she strained to snag the edge of the envelope and drag it out of the cubicle. The envelope was larger and heavier than she anticipated, and she almost dropped everything, but finally she stood in the lobby, frowning at the bubble pack, turning it over in her hand to look at the back. There was no writing there, and she flipped it back to look at the front again.

There was no return address -- in its place were the three rather ominous words, "Open in Privacy". She did not recognize the handwriting. Another tenant moved in behind her, after his own mail, and she stepped away from the mailboxes and moved over to a seating arrangement grouped in front of a fake fireplace at one end of the lobby. She sank onto the end of the couch, placed the rest of her mail on the seat beside her, and cautiously began to palpate the mysterious, thick envelope. She looked around the nearly empty lobby and wondered it this was private enough. The area where she was sitting was off to one side of the glass doors that led to the lobby, and the few stragglers inside did not appear to be paying any attention to her. Still, something compelled her to gather everything up, stand, and cross a few feet to a stairwell. Feeling somewhat foolish, and having no idea why she was even taking such precautions, Amita ascended one flight and let herself into her apartment. She dropped the mail and her purse on the hall table, and went immediately to the bathroom. She closed herself in, still holding the bubble pack envelope. She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry when she pulled back the shower curtain far enough to step into the bathtub. Sinking down to kneel on the porcelain, she ripped the end of the envelope open and peered inside.

She frowned again, easing a shaky hand inside to withdraw the cell phone. She examined it curiously. Almost out of memory bars, its display showed that there was a voice mail waiting. Her heart began to beat faster as she considered the possibilities. This could be some form of ransom contact; she should call the FBI right away. She had already compromised potential evidence, by touching the phone and the envelope.

She briefly considered leaving the bathroom to retrieve her own cell phone from her purse. Amita half-stood, paused, then sank to the bottom of the tub again. Swallowing, she regarded the phone with both distrust and interest for a full 15 seconds before she started pushing the right buttons to access the voice mail, and brought the phone to her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut and nearly swooned with relief, as Charlie's voice began to emanate from the cell.

_"Amita...I love you. I can't tell you everything right now, but I will call you on this phone on Friday evening. Programmed into this phone are two numbers, to the phones Don and I have now. Baby, I'm trusting you with my life, and Don's life. Please don't tell anyone about this phone. __Anyone.__ Not Dad, or Larry, or Don's team...please." There was a pause, and Charlie's voice changed. "Please take care of Dad. Encourage him to believe in us...but his distress still has to be believable. We don't know who's watching." Charlie's voice grew in strength. "They could be watching you, too, sweetheart. Please be careful. I'm begging you."_ Amita thought that Charlie started to say 'Good-bye', but the voice mail limit had been reached, and he was cut off.

She listened to the message eight more times, until the phone ran out of battery power. Then she clutched it to her bosom while tears pressed at the back of her eyes. "He's alive," she whispered, and she hung her head to breathe deeply for a few moments, thinking she might pass out. Then she sprang to her feet, nearly tripping over the rim of the bathtub in her haste to exit, and shouting at absolutely no one. "Oh, my God," she cried. "I need to go buy a charger!"

**.........................................................................**

"So when you're finished with the restrooms, go ahead and take your lunch break. It's okay with Harry if we go down to the river for that, but I prefer eating up behind the camp kitchen on days I don't drive into town and meet with my sweetie down at the cafe. Campers just assume a guy is always on the job whenever they see him, ya know what I mean, Chad?" It took Charlie a second too long to respond to the foreign name, and Matt grew impatient. "Don't make no never-mind to me," he shrugged. "Eat wherever you want."

Charlie reddened slightly, although Matt probably couldn't tell, given the sunburn already in residence on Charlie's face, and offered a lopsided grin. "Sorry, Matt; I was just preoccupied." He tried to think of an appropriate preoccupation. "What...how do I go about cleaning the women's side of the restroom, exactly?"

Matt laughed, and pointed into the dark storage room before them. "There're some signs in there; set 'em up in front of the door while you're inside, to keep people out." He winked, and bumped a shoulder into Charlie's. "Try to be quick about it; the ladies don't take too kindly to waiting." Charlie huffed a small laugh, and Matt started to turn. "So you gonna meet me for lunch? Gloria ain't workin' 'til the dinner shift, today." He stopped, confused, and frowned slightly. "How do you carry a cooler on a bicycle, anyway?"

Charlie stared at him. "Cooler?"

Matt nodded. "Harry don't allow us employees to use the refrigerators in the kitchen, so that's about the only way to keep whatever you bring for lunch good. You ain't got no cooler?"

Charlie frowned. "I ain't got no lunch," he admitted, so appalled at his own grammar that he almost lost his train of thought. "That girl...Sally...she told my...cousin...that Harry fed his employees."

Matt guffawed. " 'Tween you and me, that one's not too bright," he shared. "Harry keeps her around for eye candy, I guess. Nah, we gotta bring our lunch with us. Mosta the camps around here feed, all right, but Harry pays a little better, so nobody here makes a big deal out of it. We used to be able to charm the cook outta sumthin, 'fore Harry took over and replaced her with some guy who's as apt to slip you a knife as a jar of peanut butter." He seemed to consider for a moment, then looked at his feet shyly. "I can let you have half my sandwich, if you want." Charlie's stomach growled loudly, and Matt laughed again. "Guess that's a 'yes'," he deadpanned. "Just make sure you bring something from now on; I hardly ever spend my lunch hour at the camp. Rest of the time..."

Charlie smiled. "I know. Gloria."

Matt winked again. "Sometimes, we even have time to eat."

**...................................................................................**

Half a bagel. One slice of already stale bread (from the sale bin), slathered with one teaspoon of homemade blackberry jam (make it last). Half a bologna-and-cheese sandwich. All told, not much fuel for a 20-mile round trip bike ride, not to mention the ten hours of physical labor that constituted a work day. Charlie was so exhausted when he got back to Doris's camp at nearly 8 o'clock that he fell on the mattress on the floor without even greeting Don, or asking how his first day of work went.

Don was sitting at the rickety table, reading a tattered paperback he had picked up from the lost-and-found. He looked up when Charlie dragged into the small room, and frowned as he watched his brother drop like a stone. "Hey, hey," he said, starting to stand, "it's your turn for the bed, tonight."

"Mmpfh," Charlie mumbled, his eyes closed.

Don tried again. "At least eat your dinner. I saved half a roast beef sandwich and half a bag of chips for you."

"cantlifm'arms," Charlie yawned.

Don grinned and picked the dinner sack up from the table, crossing the short distance to the mattress. He was tired and sore himself, and almost as sunburned as Charlie, so he thought he understood how his brother was feeling. His quads protested hotly as he lowered himself to the edge of the mattress, and he reminded himself that Charlie had to add one hell of a bike ride to his day. "Here," he said softly, setting the brown paper bag next to Charlie's outstretched hand. "Doris let me take some stuff from last season's lost-and-found, today, and I got us a couple more t-shirts. Even a pair of jeans that I think will fit you. I had my emergency duffle in the SUV, so I already had a change of clothes. If you can manage to change, I'll wash our stuff out in the sink tonight." He sighed, wiping his brow with his hand and looking longingly at the small window. "I didn't realize it would be so hot at night; stuff'll probably be dry by morning."

" 'kay," Charlie garbled agreeably, rolling onto his side away from his brother.

Don grimaced in pain as he moved his arm enough to push at the back of Charlie's knee. "Seriously, Chuck. You need to eat. What did you have for lunch?"

"Sammich," Charlie yawned. "Lemme'lone...."

Don rolled his eyes and thought about his own lunch. Doris Sackett should think about putting a restaurant on site; it could stay open during the winter, and provide additional income. The food Don had sampled so far was simple, old-fashioned, filling and delicious. Lunch had included a country-hearty macaroni-and-cheese casserole; some of the best green beans he had ever eaten, topped with slivers of almonds; fresh biscuits slathered with butter; and three oatmeal cookies. He had eaten so much that it was difficult to go back to work. He would have preferred a nap over chopping wood and stocking 37 campsites...but that would probably be true any day, he thought ruefully.

Doris's former handyman apparently hadn't been doing much even before his DUI, and work was backed-up at the camp; Don easily worked until almost seven, and he was starving again by the time Doris brought him the sack dinner and insisted he knock off for the evening, before he killed himself on his first day. He had experienced difficulty saving half of the meal for Charlie. Now, his stomach rumbled as he watched his brother, determining from the even rise-and-fall of his chest that he was already deeply asleep. Charlie was definitely down for the count, though the tiny room was almost unbearably hot and stuffy, even with the small window open. Don knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep in there yet, so he pushed off the mattress with wobbly legs, still clutching the paper sack, and decided to go sit outside for a while. He could watch the campfires in the distance while he ate the rest of his dinner.

**....................................................................................**

Charlie was obviously sore in the morning, stiff-legged and slow. At first Don was tempted to tease him without mercy, until his brother was forced to admit that maybe a 10-mile bike ride twice a day was a little more than he was ready for, but then he noticed Charlie putting two slices of dry bread in the paper sack that had contained last night's dinner. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

Charlie looked both embarrassed and defensive. "I'm sorry; I know we'll go through more bread this way -- but it _was_ originally my money!"

Don looked nonplussed. "I'm not talking about the money, Charlie. _Chad._" His expression turned pensive. "Now that I think about it, you probably need a little snack before you tackle the ride back here in the evening. We should have thought of that earlier." He picked up Charlie's backpack and hefted it. "This is a little heavy, but you can't hang onto a paper bag for 10 miles. You'd better empty out what you can and put the bread in here." He frowned. "I wish we had something else for you to take...can you get something from the kitchen at Harry's for an afternoon snack?"

Charlie hedged. He knew that once Don became aware of the fact that Harry was not feeding him lunch, he would insist on spending the rest of their money on food, and Charlie was already nervous to the point of continual heartburn about their dwindling funds. "I'm okay for a few days," he insisted. "Tonight is my call to Amita; if something goes wrong, we'll need everything we have left to put gas in the car and get out of here." Don didn't look happy, and Charlie came as close as he could to lying to Don. "Look, today's Friday; we both get paid. I know the weekend is busy here, but we can go into town Monday night and I'll get some protein bars, or something."

Don issued an ultimatum. "Until then, you take a few dollars with you every day, so that you can buy yourself something at Harry's."

Charlie could agree to that. After all, it would make Don happier -- and, it wasn't as if he would actually have to spend it. "Deal," he grinned.

Don looked at his watch and headed for the door. "Better take off soon, Buddy. I know _you_ don't start working until 7, but it's a hell of a commute."

"Yeah," Charlie mused, slightly distracted. "See you later, _Dave._" Don laughed, and Charlie looked at his own watch.

He wondered if there was a place in town where he could sell it.

**.....................................................................................**

End, Chapter 10


	11. It's For You

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 11: ** **It's For You**

Amita had no idea when on Friday that Charlie intended to call. She clipped the prepaid cell to her shorts, and wore a loose tank top -- untucked -- for cover. Her attire appeared a little more careless, sloppier than usual, but that was certainly understandable under the stressful circumstances.

During the morning, she went by the FBI offices for an update, accompanied by Alan and Larry. Everyone was very solicitous of them, and kind, but since the team had no new information, it was still a frustrating experience. It was understood by all that if anyone knew what was required to go successfully underground, it was Don. There was an air of despair and fatalism surrounding the investigation that permeated Amita's soul and left her even more depressed, even though she knew Charlie was alive. Not for a second was she tempted to give up her secret. Charlie had begged her -- but he hadn't needed to. A simple request would have done it. There was no one she trusted more than Charlie, no one she loved more than Charlie. Most of the time, there was no one she understood better than Charlie. She might not understand what had driven him to disappear (at least not yet), but she still trusted him, still loved him.

When her parents called from London that afternoon, filled with concern about the missing brothers, she didn't tell them, either; something that made her feel a little guilty. These were her parents, after all. She had loved and trusted them her entire life, and they were very worried about their only child, and the man she loved. They even asked to speak to Alan, so that they could express their support and best wishes. Both Amita and Alan were touched, and for a moment, all she wanted was to dissolve in tears and be gathered in her mother's arms, as she had when she was a little girl.

After dinner, Larry had persuaded Alan to distract himself with a game of chess -- which he was losing, badly. Amita was sitting at the dining room table with them, watching -- mostly because she couldn't think of anything else to do -- when the cell phone still clipped to her shorts finally rang. She sprang to her feet and spoke before thinking. "Oh, my God."

Alan looked up at her, a tiny, sad smile on his face. "You're nervous as a cat, sweetheart. Poor dear."

She tried to smile back, and smoothed her hair with a wayward hand. "It's probably my friend, Karen. I was supposed to call and give her the name of...my doctor. She's looking for a different GYN."

She blushed, hardly believing she had said that -- but it didn't seem to surprise Alan in the least. "Well, it's perfectly understandable that you forgot, my dear."

She pulled the phone from her waistband, flipped it open and brought it to her ear as she headed for the swinging kitchen door. "Karen, hi. I'm sorry I forgot to call. Let me look in my purse, I'm sure my doctor's business card is in there." As soon as the door swung shut behind her, she walked quickly to the laundry area behind the kitchen. There was a short hall separating the two rooms; the laundry room had a sliding door, but it was seldom used. Amita used it now, though, and then wedged herself in-between the washer and the dryer. "Charlie?" she whispered breathlessly, sinking to the linoleum floor.

" 'Mita?" he responded, sounding confused and apprehensive. "Who's 'Karen'?"

"Never mind that," she answered impatiently. "Where are you? How are you? Are you hurt? What can I do?"

"I love you," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Charlie...I love you, too. Now, answer me!"

He sighed into the cell. "I'm fine. We're both fine. Someone tried to kill us, but we're okay. Don thinks people in the Bureau -- maybe even other organizations, and the Justice Department -- are dirty. There was no one he trusted, so we disappeared."

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. "What were you two investigating? Is it something I can continue?"

She almost felt him nod. "Electronic funds transfer fraud," he answered hurriedly. "Don picked it up during another investigation -- that homicide, the teenage girl in the ice cream shop -- and he started following the trail. Then he found out his apartment was bugged, and the department ordered him off the investigation...it's all very complicated. But if you can get your hands on my computer, you'll see what I was trying to do. Maybe if you volunteer to help find us, David will let you..."

She interrupted him, sadly. "They didn't find your laptop, Charlie. Don's is missing from his apartment, too."

She felt his frustration. "Shit," he said softly. "Damn..."

She waited a few seconds and then started speaking again. "I can start over. I'll start over."

He was despondent. "So much more time..."

"It would go faster, if Larry helped," she pointed out.

Charlie hesitated. "No," he finally said. "It's not that I don't trust him, but let's be honest; he's not an actor. His face, his physical expressions, are an open book. Anyone who is watching will be able to tell if he's in contact with me. Plus, if they see you two working together, the implications would be clear."

"At least tell me where you are," Amita asked again. "I can send you money, or another laptop, and you could get back to work on it yourself!"

"That's not a good idea," Charlie insisted. "Trust me, I'd love both of those things, but I can't emphasize enough how dangerous that could be for all of us. Anyone who knows anything about me is going to be watching you more closely than anyone else -- except, maybe, Dad. Putting something in the mail to me could lead them directly to us."

A note of desperation crept into Amita's voice. "There must be something I can do to help you!"

"Let me talk to Don," Charlie said. "We're both working right now, trying to get enough money for a laptop; I have a copy of the data with me, on a thumb drive. It might already be too late for that -- they probably launched a cover-up attempt around the same time they tried to kill us. But if we can find an internet cafe nearby, I could e-mail it to you. At the very least, you'll see what Don first found. You can design your own search algorithms, or use some of mine -- you know where the back-up DVDs are."

"Use my _Primacy_ account," Amita suggested. "It's as secure as I can make it, and I doubt that anyone would think to even attempt a hack on the Goddess of Destruction."

In spite of the seriousness of the conversation thus far, Charlie laughed. "I know _I_ wouldn't," he agreed. Amita smiled and felt tears pressing at the back of her eyes at the same time, and suddenly found herself unable to speak. She was glad when Charlie kept talking. "Listen, I know you might need to bring in someone else on this. Please, just be careful who you trust, and how much. If you think Larry can pull it off..."

"I'll think about it," Amita promised. "He and I are both staying in the house with your father. Alan's pretty upset."

"Thank you for that," Charlie answered dejectedly. "I hate putting him through this; I know Don does, as well."

"Call me again, after you and Don have had a chance to talk?"

"I will," he assured her. "I'll try to get to an internet café, and call you from there – we'll try for Monday night. Be careful, sweetie. Remember, Don thinks the Justice Department is compromised, so he hasn't contacted Robin. He's afraid they'll be watching her, too."

"This must be horrible for both of them," she murmured. "You be careful too, Charlie. I love you."

"I love you, too," he rasped, sounding as if he was repressing tears himself, now. "Monday."

"Monday," she echoed as she heard him disconnect. Amita stayed on the floor for a few minutes, composing herself, before she stood and pried herself from her position between the machines. She sniffed a few times as she was clipping the phone back onto her shorts, but refused to allow herself to give in to tears. Finally, she rearranged her tank top, slid back the laundry room door, and traversed the short hall into the kitchen.

Alan was just about to push back through the swinging door into the dining room when he saw her. "Amita! There you are; I thought you'd gone outside, or something." He looked behind her curiously. "Were you in the laundry room?"

She tried not to blush. "Y-yes. I...couldn't find the business card in my purse, and I thought I might have left it in the pocket of my jeans when I put them in the laundry."

He nodded, his expression pensive as he looked at her. "I raised two boys. Believe me; I always check all pockets before I put something in the wash."

Amita's eyes skittered away from him, toward the counter, and her gaze landed on her purse. "I'm sure you do," she said. "I thought they might still be the dirty clothes basket."

"Ummm," Alan murmured, tracking her gaze. "Did you find the card?"

Amita's cell phone was clearly visible, spilling out of her purse, and she wanted to sink through the floor. "What?" she stalled, trying to move to a place where she could block Alan's view of the purse.

He smiled...then, to her complete surprise, winked. "The doctor's business card," he repeated. "Your friend Karen must be very anxious. Your phone was ringing, again."

So much for blocking Alan's view. Amita turned slightly and reached for the cell. "Ah...right," she said. "I told Karen I'd call her back if I found the card."

"I see," Alan said, regarding her through narrowed eyes. Seeming to make a decision, he moved to continue pushing his way through the door. "Well. I'll let you get back to Karen, then."

**........................................................................**

Robin looked exhausted...sad, and Alan felt bad for not getting in touch with her sooner. They were sitting in the small cafe on the first floor of the justice building, sipping coffee, and now he put his mug down and reached out to place one hand on top of one of hers, stilling her nervous fingernail-tapping on the surface of the table. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you sooner. Are you getting any sleep?"

Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes for a moment before she blinked them back and offered him a slight smile. "I'm all right, Alan. Thank you for calling me and keeping me updated. I'm sorry I haven't come by the house..."

He squeezed her hand before pulling his own back and picking up his coffee. "Nonsense," he answered. He took a sip of the hot liquid and studied her carefully over the rim of the cup. He cleared his throat as he set the mug back on the table. "I know we just spoke yesterday morning, but I don't suppose you've heard anything else?"

She wrapped both of her hands around her own mug and shook her head. She refused to look at him, Alan noticed. "N-no," she answered.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Has he called you?"

Robin did look at him then, her expression a mixture of hurt and foreboding. "He hasn't," she informed him, and leaned forward a little herself. She glanced around surreptitiously before speaking further. "And I have to wonder why. I've certainly spent a lot of time thinking about it. If they weren't coerced into obtaining the car, then they went underground for a reason -- Don must either know, or suspect, that someone at the Bureau is dirty." Alan nodded, and she continued. "Furthermore, his suspicions must include other agencies, as well. Charlie has not tried to contact anyone at the NSA, and Don has not even sent me a message -- which implicates the Justice Department as suspect."

Alan's eyebrows shot up. "Surely not!" he protested hotly. "Don would _never_ suspect that you..."

This time she reached out to touch his hand. "I didn't say me," she corrected. "I said the agency for which I work; if someone here is dirty, they're probably watching me, monitoring me -- and Don probably suspects that."

Alan looked stunned, and appeared speechless. Robin reached into her pocket and withdrew a small slip of paper, which she shoved at him across the table as she leaned back slightly in her chair. "I wish you'd think about it," she said, more loudly than Alan thought was necessary. "I've written down the number of a very good therapist. I'm concerned about you, Alan."

Alan blinked twice, then looked down at the slip of paper. It was filled with tiny writing, and he had to squint to read it: _Jim Montague, FBI West Coast Director. __Pulled Don off a case that__ Don was investigating on his own. All I have. _

Alan blinked again and folded the paper, slipping it into his own pocket. "Thank you for your concern," he said in as normal a voice as possible. "Maybe I will go and talk to someone."

...............................................................................................

* * *

Lenny Green owed Special Agent Don Eppes. Well, technically, now Special Agent Don Eppes owed Lenny Green, but Green wasn't too worried about it. For one thing, Eppes was a man of his word. He'd said that he was good for the other five grand, and Lenny believed him. For another, Lenny was more worried about Eppes than he was about the money. The FBI agent must have been in real trouble, to show up on Lenny's doorstep in the middle of the night looking for two sets of fake ID. Lenny had used Don's FBI identification, and a Cal Sci ID badge, to make up the new sets; he had seen that the other man was named 'Eppes' as well. There wasn't a strong physical resemblance between the two men, but they must be related somehow. The other guy looked younger, so Don probably felt as if he had to watch out for him, too. The agent might be tough as nails, but once Lenny had woken up, Eppes had looked scared -- and that scared Lenny. The Don Eppes he knew didn't do 'scared'.

Lenny and Don went way back -- all the way to Don's first assignment as an FBI agent, in Detroit. Lenny's business was based in Detroit, then. Don was part of the team that took him down. Although he had already been involved in identification falsification for years, he'd never before been apprehended, and Lenny's attorney (for whom Lenny created one or two rockin' sets of ID along the way) managed to get him bail. The agents were righteously angry, and even Lenny had been stunned. After all, a man surrounded by some of the best fake ID in the country should be considered a flight risk. Sure enough, Lenny had disappeared within 24 hours of his arraignment. He spent some time traveling -- even lived in London for a while -- but he missed his mother. When he found out through the grapevine that the old woman was dying, Lenny reappeared. He visited her in a New York hospital, where she was wasting away with cancer, dying on public assistance. He put all of his considerable money into her treatment, but cancer therapies guzzled the dollars like water. He tried to make more money, doing the only thing he knew how to do -- and got sloppy. He was busted again, and Michigan's warrant was discovered.

By this time, Special Agent Eppes was working Fugitive Recovery. Lenny was now considered a flight risk, so Don and his partner Billy Cooper showed up in a Manhattan court to escort him directly to Detroit. It was winter, and flights were cancelled left-and-right. The men finally decided to drive, and it was a long trip, full of detours and closed mountain passes on the iced-over Pennsylvania Turnpike. During the course of the three-day transport, Lenny shared his story with the agents. Cooper was unimpressed, but for some reason, Eppes felt sorry for him. When they finally arrived in Detroit, the agent talked the state's attorney into letting New York prosecute first. That way, Lenny could do his time near his mother. As long as she was healthy enough, she could visit him at the prison; when her cancer finally claimed her, Lenny would be close enough for a compassionate furlough to attend the funeral (accompanied by guards, of course). His mother had only been able to visit him three times, and a year after his imprisonment, he had needed that compassionate furlough. They were three priceless visits, though, and being able to attend her funeral meant more to Lenny than he could express.

Green did his time in New York, then another two-year stretch in Michigan. When he got out, he relocated to Los Angeles, determined to start fresh. It didn't take him long to discover that a convicted felon still on parole is not highly employable, and he began to dabble in his old trade again. He could have been knocked over with a feather when he was caught a third time – by none other than Don Eppes, who had recently transferred to LA himself. This time, Lenny made a deal; he led the FBI to a serial rapist on the Most Wanted list. In the process, he became Eppes' informant. The agent looked the other way when he had to, and the criminal did what was required to stay out of prison. Now he found himself in the untenable position of facing Special Agent Colby Granger in the box.

They had been there a while now, and Granger was growing frustrated. He loomed over Green, his hands on his hips. "Listen, Lenny, we know Don's gone under. He's gotten his hands on some good fake ID; he doesn't do anything half-assed. Nobody's better than you."

Lenny yawned and thought about what he owed Special Agent Don Eppes. "I ain't in that biznis no more," he said in a bored voice. "Jist barely managed to come up with my 'Get Out of Jail Free' card last time, and if I get busted again, it'll mean hard time. Third strike and all. I wash dishes at a hotel; feds even helped me get the job."

Granger sat at the table, making himself comfortable for another round, but Lenny didn't care. He'd done his time. He'd learned from the best…and on his sweet mother's grave, he was not giving up Don Eppes.

...........................................................................

* * *

Charlie came out to the back porch when he was finished talking to Amita, and sat down silently on the steps next to his brother. It wasn't dark yet, but a few campfires already blazed as campers cooked their dinners, and he stared morosely at the smoke rising in the distance for a few moments before Don spoke. "She ok?"

Charlie sighed, swallowed, and refused to look at him. "Sure. What's a cancelled trip to London, a missing fiancé and potential surveillance?"

Don grimaced. "I'm sorry I ever brought you in on this, Charlie."

Now Charlie did look at him, with a flash of anger. "It would be so much better, Don, if you had disappeared off the face of the earth with no money, no ID, nobody to watch your back…" His voice trailed off along with his anger, and Charlie sighed again. "I just miss her," he admitted in a small voice, looking away again.

Don nodded. "I know," he said softly.

The two sat in silence for awhile before Charlie spoke again. "Do you think we have enough gas in the car to get to Idaho Falls and back on Monday? I borrowed a phone book from Doris, and there's an internet café there. If I could e-mail Amita what we already have, she could work a lot faster."

Don frowned as if in thought. "How secure will that be?"

Charlie looked at him seriously. "I think it will be okay. She has a very secure e-mail server connected to her _Primacy_ account. The risk is about as minimal as it can be."

Don nodded. "Okay." His expression brightened as an idea occurred to him. "Listen, Doris said she needs me to go to Idaho Falls in the next few days, in the campground truck, for supplies. I'll ask her if I can do that late in the afternoon on Monday." His eyes narrowed as he looked at Charlie. "Plus, while we're picking up Doris's stuff, you can buy yourself something decent for lunches."

Charlie rolled his eyes and looked away without answering, already doing the math in his head. They couldn't afford the additional groceries. The internet café would not be free. At least taking the truck would save their precious gasoline, but their funds were down to the point where every dime mattered. It wasn't much of a decision at all; he just knew he had to find a way to distract Don at the appropriate moment.

..............................................................................

* * *

End, Chapter 11


	12. Off the Case

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 12: ****Off the Case**

Phillip Wright sighed, swiveled his office chair toward the window, and rubbed a hand over his face. It was Monday; the Eppes brothers had been missing since Tuesday night the week before, and they were no closer to finding them than they had been when they started the investigation. He had been trying to stay out of David Sinclair's way, allowing him to take the lead – hell, he couldn't provide much help anyway, he thought ruefully. He had nothing but vague, unfounded suspicions.

The phone rang, and he swiveled back around to answer it. "A.D. Wright," he announced curtly, and froze then slowly straightened in his chair as James Montague's voice came over the line.

"_Phillip. Anything new on the Eppes investigation?_"

"No, Jim," Wright responded, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "We still haven't been able to verify that they left town of their own volition, although it does appear that way."

"_I checked with the other agencies. If any of them had Charlie Eppes working on a project, none of them are owning up to it, although in the absence of any other evidence, I have to believe that's the situation. In light of that, I've decided that we will expend no more resources on this case. I want you to close it_."

Wright sat speechless for a moment, before he managed, "Close it?"

"_You heard me. I was not told this directly, but I was given the distinct impression from one of the other agencies that we need to butt out of this. You will inform the team immediately, is that clear?_"

Wright swallowed. "Yes, that's clear."

"_Very well. Tell Sinclair I want him to prioritize the dock murder – we're catching some heat from the public on that one_."

The line disconnected, and Wright hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, staring at the opposite wall for a moment. Montague could just be telling the truth, he thought to himself; perhaps one of the agencies really was hinting that they drop a sensitive case- which would mean that the brothers were likely safe somewhere, working under the jurisdiction of another agency. Or, Montague could be lying; he could be involved somehow, and was using his influence to keep them from uncovering whatever it was that the Eppes brothers had found. Wright had no way of knowing for certain, and no other choice than to pull off the team.

He stood slowly and headed for the elevator, lost in silent thought on the way down. He found the team huddled around a computer monitor in a conference room, and David Sinclair rose as he entered, and pointed to the screen. "An LAPD detective found this video at a check-cashing place near the chop shop. It was recorded the night that the Eppes brothers disappeared." He traced a figure on the screen with his forefinger. "This man comes in with a backpack hiding his face and speaks to the clerk – we can't see his face, but look at the hair. That's Charlie Eppes. When we questioned the clerk, he said he cashed a check for him, all right – a royalty check, made out to Charles Eppes."

Wright studied the screen with narrowed eyes. "More evidence that they left town of their own accord."

The team exchanged a glance. "We don't know that for certain," said Liz Warner, slowly. "There's still no hard evidence that they weren't operating under duress."

"Yes, but the likelihood of that becomes smaller with each find," said Wright. "If someone wanted to get rid of them, why not just make off with them? Why pull such an elaborate charade?"

"To make it _look_ like they left on their own – it becomes a missing persons case instead of a suspected kidnapping," said Colby. He was looking at Wright with an expression that said, '_you should know this already_,' and his jaw jutted stubbornly. "That means fewer resources to commit to the case, no matter who's working it. A missing persons case just doesn't command the same attention."

"Yes, well, that's exactly what I came to tell you," said Wright, feeling somehow like a traitor. "I just got direction to pull off this case, and focus our attention on the dock murder. Apparently Director Montague is getting some signals that we need to step back from this."

Nikki scowled. "Step back? The SAC of the LA office and his brother are missing, and they want us to step back?"

Wright shrugged, trying to look nonchalant in spite of his own misgivings. "That's the word. There must be a good reason for it – if they're working a case for another agency, we could be jeopardizing their safety. In any event, we need to follow orders."

David Sinclair pulled his dark eyes away from his team, and met Wright's gaze. "Yes, sir," he said, although there was reluctance in his voice. "We understand."

"Good," said Wright, and with a curt nod, turned and strode out of the room. He knew one thing; in spite of his orders to the team, he had no intention of dropping this one himself.

* * *

An involuntary groan escaped Charlie, as a cramp hit his quadriceps. It was Monday, late afternoon, and he was pedaling his bicycle along the ten miles of rural road that led from Harry's Hideaway back to Snake River Lodge. His breath was short and ragged and his limbs felt like lead; it seemed that the ride was becoming harder rather than easier as the week went on. He suspected the reason for that was lack of food; he'd been subsisting on half of a bagel in the morning, a couple of slices of bread at lunchtime, and half of Don's sandwich at dinner; not enough food for a sedentary lifestyle, and he'd been anything but sedentary. It hadn't helped matters that they had worked through the weekend. His hands were blistered and his muscles sore from the bike rides and the hard work in the camp; he'd nearly passed out splitting wood that afternoon. He'd approached the ride back with some trepidation; and it was with a profound sense of relief that he finally rolled into the campground, catching a sour glance from Doris as she carried a bag out to the trash.

She didn't like him; Charlie knew – she apparently thought he was a no-good freeloader, and at one point, he'd heard her mutter something about a 'long-haired freak.' It didn't matter, though, because she doted on Don; it was plain to see, even though she tried hard to maintain her sour expression around him. As long as Don stayed on her good side, they'd have a place to stay – and food. Even though she refused to feed Charlie, she unwittingly was; the main part of his subsistence still came from half of Don's breakfast and half of his evening sandwich. Charlie knew he couldn't exist on this diet for long; he was sure he'd already lost between five and ten pounds in five days, but he figured he could stick it out a while longer. They had planned to go into town that night to an internet café so that Charlie could send his file to Amita, and Don had insisted that they get additional food so that Charlie could grab a snack before the ride home each day – he still wasn't aware that Charlie wasn't getting lunch. Although Charlie had agreed, he hated to spend the money. The more they spent, the longer it would take them to save up for a computer.

He wearily pulled up to the house, disembarked, and wheeled his bike back behind Doris' cabin, entering through the rear door. Don was in the room, already showered and dressed in clean clothes; after seeing a pair of jeans hung from the tiny bedroom window to dry, Doris had begun to allow them to use the washer and dryer located down the hall next to the kitchen. Charlie suspected it was less out of largess than it was out of self-preservation; she had to smell them, after all. Don was grinning at him, and regardless of his fatigue, Charlie felt an answering smile come to his face. In spite of the situation, he was almost enjoying this – the unique satisfaction of hard work, and above all the time shared with his brother, away from everything else. He felt an odd sense of freedom; as if they'd ditched their worries and everyday concerns for a simpler life.

"What's so funny?" he asked, and Don grinned more widely and shook his head.

He waved a bit of paper at him. "Not funny – but good. I've got a surprise."

Charlie eyed the paper. "What?"

Don ran a hand over his face, and scratched at his newly grown beard. It was itchy and irritated him, Charlie knew, but Don had decided it was best if they disguised their appearances a bit. Charlie had taken to pulling his hair back in a short ponytail and sporting a tattered khaki-colored ball cap they'd discovered in the lost-and-found that read 'Bass King,' in order to hide his curls.

"It's a coupon," Don continued, "some kind of door prize actually, for a bar in Idaho Falls. I was in the office yesterday, and I walked in behind a guy who was checking out. He told Doris he'd been at the bar the night before and had won it in a drawing, but they were leaving and he couldn't use it. He offered it to her and she told him to put it in a basket where she keeps coupons for the campers." He smiled, a little sheepishly. "I picked it up after the guy left, when she wasn't looking. After working your ass off for most of a week, I figured you earned a night out. It's good for some free drinks for up to a party of four at some place called the Falls Inn."

Charlie had a vision of a cold beer, and it suddenly sounded like the best thing on earth. He licked his lips, and snatched his towel. "That sounds great – let me grab a shower."

"I've got half a sandwich for you," Don called after him. "You'd better get some food in you before you go."

The ride in the campground truck - along the same road he'd just bicycled - felt decadent. The half sandwich had taken the edge off his hunger; he was clean and riding in comfort, for an evening out, no less. Charlie was surprised at the excitement he felt; the simple pleasures seemed profound after the grueling week. In the back of his mind still lurked some darker thoughts – an undercurrent of fear, and a need to see Amita that was bordering on desperation, but at the moment, he was caught up in the simple of joy of a night out with his brother. He sighed with contentment, and settled back in the passenger seat. "Let's stop at the internet café first," he suggested. "I need a clear head for that conversation."

* * *

Colby Granger looked at the clock as the phone rang, and picked up the receiver with a quick glance around him. It was after six p.m. and the office had cleared out for the evening, for the most part. David Sinclair was still there, but he was in the conference room, and Colby had the necessary solitude for the phone call.

"_Agent Granger. It's Pat, from the lab_."

"Yeah, Pat."

"_We swept Don Eppes' apartment today, like you asked. No files or papers, but we found audio devices – four of 'em. They're all the same type; serial numbers are pretty close so we're guessing they're from the same lot. Funny thing is, they're the same type we use here at the Bureau. Tomorrow morning, as soon as they open, I'm gonna call the manufacturer and try to find out what lot number they came from, and who they sold it to_."

"Thanks, Pat, that's good info," murmured Colby into the receiver, trying to fight down the jolt of excitement the news generated. "Do me a favor, keep this quiet – whatever you find, it only comes to me, okay?"

"_You got it."_

"Thanks." Colby hung up the receiver, and stared, unseeing, at his computer screen. Wright's assertion that Don and Charlie were working for another agency had just been blown out of the water, or at least, compromised – if they'd been working for a legitimate agency, then why was Don Eppes being monitored? Colby wondered if he'd find bugs in Charlie's office, too, but he didn't need to look; he'd already established that at least one of them had been under surveillance. He didn't want to call unnecessary attention to himself with another search, because he was in this one for the long haul. He'd been there before himself – on the run with no one to help him. Then, Don and Charlie Eppes had come through for him; had saved his life. There was no way anyone was going to stop him from trying to find out what had happened to the Eppes brothers.

"Bugs," he said to himself under his breath. "Holy crap."

* * *

Charlie found a terminal more secluded than most in the internet café, and with a quick look around, pulled out his flash drive. As he inserted it into the computer and saw the indicator light flash, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed one of the two numbers on it. "Amita? Hi, it's me."

"_Hi! How are you?_" she asked with forced cheerfulness, and Charlie knew that someone else was in the room with her. "_Okay,_ _let me get on my computer, and I can look it up for you._"

He heard her moving on the other end and waited, and while he did, he typed a message to her _Primacy_ account, attached the file, positioned the cursor over 'send' and lifted his finger to click 'enter,' and send it. He would need to tell her to be sure not to call any of the numbers on the list, he thought; undoubtedly the calls made by him and Don had clued in the people behind the scheme, and prompted them to send –

"Hit men," he whispered, his eyes widening in sudden consternation. Memories of Amita's recent kidnapping rose in his mind, and he sat there for a moment, frozen, with his finger hovering over the 'enter' key. Granted, the _Primacy_ account was probably safe, but… He couldn't do this, he realized abruptly – he couldn't put her in danger. No matter what happened, he couldn't face that again.

Her voice came on the line again, low, but sounding a little more normal. "_Hi – sorry – I was in the living room with your dad. I went into the guestroom and I'm on my computer now. Did you send the file?_"

"I – no. I – can't."

"_You can't? Is there a problem with the computer_?"

"No – no problem." He glanced around him to make sure he was still out of earshot of any possible eavesdroppers. "I guess – I don't know for sure how they found out I was working on this. Don and I both made a few phone calls to some of the sites – it might have been that, but maybe they have some kind of tracer program set up on their computers."

Amita's voice came slowly, doubtfully. "_I don't know, Charlie. Programs like that exist, but that's really sophisticated stuff_. _It's much more likely that they traced your phone calls._"

Charlie's lower jaw jutted stubbornly, even as his heart dropped a notch. If he refused to give the file to Amita, they would have to wait until he got a computer to make any ground. He wondered vaguely if he could manage on one of the computers at the internet café, but even as he thought that, a young man walked by on his way to another terminal, with a curious glance at Charlie's nearly blank screen. No – definitely not – there was not enough privacy here. "Well, I changed my mind. I'm not going to send it. We're just going to have to wait."

"_You mean until you can get a computer? How long?"_

"I don't know," he responded miserably. "Probably a few weeks."

"_A few weeks! Charlie!"_

"I know, I know. Look, we'll think of something." Charlie brightened a little. "Don and I are working some odd jobs – maybe I can talk my employer into using his computer in lieu of pay." He paused. "How's Dad doing?"

"_All right_," she sighed. "_About the same. This is killing him. Are you sure I can't tell him anything_?"

Charlie hesitated, and glanced toward the front of the café, where Don was lounging against the doorframe, chewing gum with deceptive nonchalance, his sharp eyes on the street. "I don't know. I'll talk about it with Don. I've gotta go – I'll call you Thursday night, okay?"

"_Okay_," she echoed; her voice just a bit tremulous.

He had a sudden vision of her beautiful face, the smell of her hair, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Hang in there," he whispered, as much to himself as to her.

* * *

Amita hung up the phone and just sat for a moment, trying to will the tears brimming in her eyes to recede. When she felt collected enough, she stood and slipped out into the hallway, turning and shutting the door softly. A voice from behind her made her jump, and she whirled to face Alan.

He studied her for a moment. "You were talking to him, weren't you? You were talking to him in the laundry room the other day, and again just now. I suspected, and I've tried to give you privacy, but I just have to know. Are they okay?"

"I, uh," she stammered, fumbling with the cell phone for a moment, before her shoulders sagged, and defeated, she ran a hand through her hair. "Aw, hell." The rare use of off-color language made it clear just how flustered she was, but she gathered herself and looked Alan in the eye, a plea mingling with sternness. "You cannot tell anyone, Alan, you need to promise me. Not Don's team, not Robin, not the police, not anyone."

Alan stared at her, paling a bit. "I promise. Why – what? Have they committed some kind of crime?"

She snorted softly and shook her head. "No – they were conducting an investigation of some kind, and they think their queries brought down an attempt on their lives. They don't know who to trust – they must have some reason to think that someone in the Bureau is involved, because Charlie made me promise not to contact anyone, not even the team. They're safe, though – I don't know where they are, but Charlie managed to send me this prepaid phone before he left."

Alan nodded. "I talked to Robin – she suspects the same thing – she said that she thinks Don must believe someone high up is dirty. She said the West Coast Director, Jim Montague, pulled Don off the case."

Amita considered that for a moment. "Charlie is working on something - they're trying to find out who is behind this." Her shoulders drooped further, and her lip trembled a little. "I was going to try to help – Charlie was supposed to send me a file, but he changed his mind. He was afraid if I started looking into it, the people behind this would find out."

She hung her head, and Alan stepped forward to give her a gentle hug. "It's okay," he said softly, letting out a huge sigh of relief as he patted her back. "Charlie's right - and of course I won't say anything. I'm glad you told me – I think you could use the support, too. The main thing is, they're alive, and out of danger."

"Yes," she sighed into his shoulder. "At least for now."

* * *

End chapter 12


	13. Free Bird

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

**........................................................................**

**Chapter 13: ****Free Bird**

The Falls Inn was on the first floor of a renovated old brick building downtown, with high ceilings and exposed ductwork, and original wooden floors. The plaster walls had been painted white and hung with area artifacts – anything from old street signs to canoe paddles. The doors were open, letting in dying sunlight and a cool summer breeze as Don and Charlie sank onto padded seats. The beer, when it came, tasted as good as Don expected it would. He took a large swallow and grinned as Charlie closed his eyes in an expression of bliss. Don studied him as he drank; Charlie looked younger somehow – maybe it was the ball cap and the fact that his hair was at least somewhat tucked up; the brim made Charlie's expressive dark eyes look even larger than normal. He'd looked young enough, in fact, to be carded, and Charlie had tensed a little as his fake ID got its first test, but the man at the door had barely given it a glance before waving them in.

They had settled in a booth off to the side; it was early yet on a Monday evening and they were in a spot secluded enough to talk – at least after the waitress had gone. "So," said Don, after another swig, "you talk to her? Did you send her the file?"

Charlie flushed; a little guiltily, Don noticed, and said, "No – I thought better of it. I'm not sure I want to bring her into this."

Don opened his mouth to protest, but at the look on Charlie's face changed his mind. "You're right," he said quietly. "It's not fair to ask her to do that – to put her in danger."

"Dad, too," said Charlie somberly. "She's spending a lot of time with him." He took another swallow of beer, and his expression lightened. "Anyway, I had an idea. Harry's got a state-of-the-art computer – a brand new one. Maybe I can ask him if I can use it, in place of pay."

Don quirked an eyebrow. "You know, that's not a half-bad idea."

"I know," said Charlie, grinning smugly. "We can use your earnings to get gas and food, and we won't have to wait for a computer." He smiled, and let out a satisfied sigh. "I can't wait to get my hands on that thing – it's pretty slick."

Don snorted, and a teasing glint appeared in his eyes. "Only you could sound more excited over a computer than you do over a woman."

His attempt at a joke fell flat; he could see a somber look steal over Charlie's face, and a wistful look in his eyes. "I miss her," he admitted, in a low voice.

"I know," said Don softly. "I miss Robin, too. At least Amita knows you're alive."

They turned pensive for a moment; then Don straightened suddenly with an air of purpose. "You know what? We're not gonna worry about it tonight." He grinned at Charlie, and sent him a wink. "We probably won't get another night out with free beer; we'd better take advantage of this." Charlie smiled back at him, and even through the smile, Don could see the dark shadows under his eyes, the weariness in his face, and it made him even more determined to chase it away, if only for a few hours. He jumped to his feet – well, he had to admit it was more like creaking than jumping – and strode – hobbled – over to the jukebox. The selections leaned more to country than rock, and he finally selected an Eagles tune and slapped in a quarter.

Back at the table, he clinked bottles with Charlie, as a lively guitar riff filled the room. "Here's to you – and Harry's computer," he said, and Charlie sent him a brilliant grin, and matched him as he drained his beer.

**...........................................................................**

* * *

J. Everett Tuttle paced in the darkness of his backyard, a scotch in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He took an impatient drag on what was left of the cigarette, and cast the butt aside with a sharp flick of his wrist. The patio lights were on; inviting chairs sat under them, but he had no patience for sitting tonight. Besides, he was expecting a visitor, and the darkness of the yard was a more suitable venue for their conversation.

He swallowed scotch, and looked up abruptly as a figure materialized on the side of the house, on a pathway that led through thick shrubbery. "Well?" he demanded sharply, as the man approached.

"I'd suggest that you don't use that tone with me," said Jim Montague. His voice was soft, but his eyes were cold, and Tuttle tried to generate a more pleasant expression. "We haven't found them yet," Montague continued. "Of course, with no plates, it's nearly impossible, but we have multiple-state bulletins out for a dark green Crown Victoria, along with descriptions of the Eppes brothers. What about you? Any hits on your search engine?"

Tuttle scowled. "Not a ping. That's what Nardek calls them – 'pings' - like sonar. Of course, that's a good thing – if we were getting hits, it would mean they're still searching. We're sure they haven't made the connection to Illusion Inc. yet, and they're apparently not even looking. So we have some time." He cocked his head toward a decanter that sat on a patio table. "Can I get you a drink?"

Montague shook his head. "I can't stay – I really shouldn't be here, but I didn't want to call. We've tapped the phone line to the Eppes house. Nothing on that yet, either. We'd like to get some bugs in place, but someone's always there. Alan Eppes hasn't left the house since they disappeared."

"What about Eppes' team?"

"They're no longer on the case. I made sure of that."

Tuttle grunted, and took another sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing. "How's Audrey?"

"Good," said Montague abruptly, as he turned.

Tuttle really didn't need to ask – he'd seen Audrey Montague himself that afternoon, and the memory of her creamy flushed bare skin brought a gleam to his eye, and smile that he hid behind his glass. He sipped again, and turned his attention to Montague, who was still speaking. "Let me know immediately if you hear anything. And keep your men ready – if the authorities find them first, we need to get your men there to take care of them before the law can mobilize and pick them up."

**.........................................................................**

* * *

Don sat back in the booth and a slight smile crept to his face in spite of himself, as Charlie tapped the table and bobbed his head in time to the music, closing his eyes with a soulful expression on his face. Charlie was a little looped – in fact, more than a little, Don had suddenly realized, and it was time to leave. Although he'd kept his drinks to a minimum and spaced them well apart so he'd stay sober enough to drive, well under the legal limit, Charlie hadn't followed suit. In fact, Don was impressed – he hadn't realized that his younger brother could pound beers with the best of them when he put his mind to it. Well, maybe not with the best of them, he conceded, as Charlie opened his eyes and sent him a half-delirious grin – the best of them wouldn't be quite this hammered.

Fortunately, even though it was now after ten, the place still was relatively empty – the fact that it was a Monday night and the effects of the economy kept the number of patrons to a handful. Don had already given the coupon to the waitress, and he peeled off a few precious ones and laid them on the table for a decent but not remarkable tip, and stood. "C'mon Chad," he said. "We've gotta work tomorrow."

"Okay Do- _Dave_." Charlie stared at the remainder of his beer for a moment, as if contemplating draining it, then stood, himself – or rather tried to. He lurched a bit, and Don grabbed his arm to steady him until Charlie found his balance. Now that his brother was moving, Don could see that he was actually drunker than he thought; Charlie was weaving badly, and Don flung an arm around his shoulders to guide him out the door. He frowned to himself on the way to the truck – he couldn't remember how many beers Charlie had, but it hadn't seemed an undue amount. Don suspected the lack of food and the strenuous exercise were amplifying the effects of the alcohol, and his frown deepened. He'd intended to stop at a grocery store while they were in town – both for food for them and also to pick up a few things for Doris, but that wouldn't be a good idea with Charlie in his current condition. They really couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves. '_No matter_, he thought to himself. _'If Charlie is able to get on Harry's computer, we won't need to save as much – we'll be able to afford another trip into town- tomorrow, if necessary_.'

He got Charlie into the camp truck, and as he got behind the wheel, Charlie sent him a lopsided, sentimental grin. "You're the best brother ever," he slurred, with emphasis, and his goofy earnest expression brought a smile back to Don's face.

"Yeah, and don't you forget it," he teased. "Put your seatbelt on."

He flicked on the radio – with no access to television, they didn't get a lot of news - and he'd tuned it to a channel that had local news on the way in. Now it was broadcasting music, and as they cleared the city limits, Don stepped up the speed a little, and Charlie turned up the volume. _Free Bird_ by Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing, and as they hurtled down the moonlit country road, Charlie started singing along – loudly, but surprisingly, relatively in tune. "'Cause I'm as free as a bird, now – and this bird you cannot cha-ange…"

Don laughed at him, but he felt his heart lighten. For just a moment, they _were_ free – out in the middle of nowhere on a beautiful summer night, feeling unfettered enough to sing along with the radio. Don had to admit, he and Charlie hadn't had many moments like these, just the two of them; hell, he hadn't even known that Charlie could sing, or would, given the chance. The moment was silly, and carefree, made him feel somehow that they were closer than they'd ever been. The feeling hung there, glittering in the sliver moonlight like a diamond, and for a few moments, Don had the conviction that everything was going to be all right.

It didn't last long. A few miles from the campsite, Charlie stopped tapping his foot to the music – he'd stopped singing moments before – and sat, his head drooping, swallowing repeatedly. "I don' feel so good," he slurred, and Don shot him a glance filled with trepidation.

"Okay – we're almost there – do me a favor and don't get sick in the truck, okay?"

Charlie raised mournful eyes to him, his head wobbling a little. "'m trying." He laid his head back on the headrest, and closed his eyes and moaned a little, and Don stepped on the gas. "Oh, boy," said Charlie, lifting his head, and the phrase had a note of warning in it.

Don shot down the road, and turned into the campsite with a grate of tires on gravel. "Hold on, buddy, we're here -,"

He swung past a parked car, into the truck's parking spot behind Doris' cabin with a lurch, shot out of his seat, and dashed around to help Charlie out the other side. His brother promptly retched, and Don grimaced as Charlie lost the contents of his stomach – half a sandwich soaked in several beers. He was so occupied with keeping Charlie from falling over and from keeping vomit off their clothes, that he didn't notice the figures approach behind them until a flashlight flicked on, and voice drawled, "Havin' a little trouble, boys?"

Don jerked his head up and took in the stocky figure holding the flashlight, clad in a uniform with a sheriff's star on his chest, and behind him stood Doris, her mouth tight with disapproval.

'_Aw, shit_,' thought Don, his heart plummeting, but he smiled a bit tightly as he supported Charlie's head with one hand, and said, "My – uh, cousin's not feeling too well." His heart lurched as the words came out of his mouth – he'd almost said 'brother' instead of 'cousin.' He wondered frantically why Doris had called the sheriff – he realized now that the car he'd swung past, although it was unmarked, must have been the sheriff's car. Was their cover blown?

The sheriff had a bland smile on his broad face; as if he was aware he had the upper hand. "My name's Sheriff Jarrett – Sam Jarrett. You boys been doin' some drinkin'?"

"My cousin has," Don admitted. He kept his voice and his eyes steady. "I had a couple, but only two, and I quit a couple of hours ago – I was driving tonight." He could see Doris' sour expression ease, just a bit, and he decided to play to her. "Doris was nice enough to offer me a job – I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her trust in me."

He'd said the right thing, he realized almost immediately, both the sheriff and Doris relaxed, visibly, and Sam Jarrett said, "That's good, because Doris is my sister, and I'm a mite fond of her." He put on a sharp expression, but Don could tell it was simply for show. "You don't cause her any trouble, now, you hear? Or your cousin, either."

Charlie, mercifully, had stopped retching and had gotten himself upright, leaning against Don. "No sir," he spoke suddenly, swaying, his words a bit slurred. "'m sorry. Won't happen again."

"Good," said Jarrett, with a curt nod. He looked at Don. "You need help gettin' him into the house?"

"No, we're fine," said Don, a wave of relief washing through him. Doris hadn't called the sheriff – he was her brother, and he'd just come for a visit. Their covers were still intact, and apparently, they weren't being kicked out.

Doris spoke for the first time. "I'm expectin' you to start on time in the morning."

"Yes, ma'am," said Don. "I will."

She raised an eyebrow, looking at Charlie, and continued as if Don hadn't spoken. "And I'm sure Harry will expect the same thing out of _him_." The 'him' was uttered with an expression of distaste. She harrumphed a bit, and she and Jarrett turned for the house.

Don let out a shaky sigh as they moved away. "Okay, buddy, let's get you inside."

Miraculously, Charlie's clothes were clean, and Don eased him onto the mat on the floor, figuring the floor was probably a safer place for him in his current condition. He pulled off Charlie's hat. "Okay, there, Bass King, better try to sleep this off."

Charlie looked up at him mournfully, eyes almost black in a pale face that was tinged with green. He still seemed extremely out-of-it, and Don wondered how he had managed his relatively coherent reply to the sheriff. "Wanna go home," he mumbled, looking like a heartsick kid at summer camp.

Don sighed. "Yeah, me too, buddy. Me too."

**.......................................................................**

* * *

Charlie sat slumped in the passenger seat of the car the next morning, miserably. Oh, miserably in a physical sense to be sure; he was still nauseated and dehydrated; his head ached and he was wobbly on his feet, but the mental misery was even worse. He'd almost been responsible for a disaster – Doris could have easily decided to kick them out. Now Don was using up gas to take him to Harry's camp, because Charlie hadn't been able to eat breakfast, and Don didn't think he was up for the bike ride.

His brother shot him a sympathetic glance from the driver's seat. "Don't worry about it, Charlie. I still needed to get supplies for Doris that we didn't get last night; I need to go into Heise anyway, and it's not far from Harry's. I'm going to fill the gas tank, too. Last night made me realize that we should keep a full tank in this thing, in case we have to get away in a hurry. We shouldn't have to save so hard anyway, if you're going to start using the computer in Harry's office."

He shot Charlie a glance, and Charlie nodded, to humor him. He wasn't convinced, himself, but if it made Don feel better to think that Charlie had been bolstered by his pep talk, it was the least he could do. Don, apparently satisfied, turned his gaze back to the road, and continued. "Drink a lot of water, buddy, it'll help. I'm going to pick up some bread and peanut butter at the store." He pulled off into the gravel drive for Harry's Hideaway. "Call me tonight when you're ready to come home. I'm assuming he'll let you start on the computer after work tonight." He shot Charlie a worried glance. "Or maybe you're not up for it today – that's okay, too."

"I'm fine," grumbled Charlie, as he reached for the door handle. He really couldn't take any more of Don's concern – it was making him feel unbearably guilty. He tottered a little as he stood, then looked in through the door as he shut it. "Thanks for the ride."

Don gave him a nod, and as he backed out of the drive, Charlie took a deep breath and headed toward the woodpile. Chopping wood was tough work, even when one felt good, but he was thankful that he'd have a chance to work off the hangover before he had to clean the bathrooms – they were always cleaned late in the morning, after the campers had a chance to take showers. He was sure his stomach wouldn't handle that quite yet.

By lunchtime, he was feeling somewhat better; and hunger was starting to return. The half sandwich he'd been eating in the evenings had been his major source of nutrition, and he knew he couldn't afford losing it the night before. He hated to spend any money, but he had to have something to eat, or he would keel over. He stepped into the cafeteria, his stomach growling, his nose supersensitive to the smells of the food prepared that day. As hungry as he was, he still wasn't quite up to the grease that came with a burger – or much of the other food that was being served. Bagels, left over from the morning, were cheap, and he settled on one those and took it outside to sit in the shade, along with a large paper cup of water. Matt had gone off, as he did most days, to visit Gloria at lunch, and Charlie had the wooden bench under the pine tree to himself.

He almost couldn't finish the bagel; he usually didn't eat either a whole bagel or a whole sandwich in one sitting, and it made him reflect uncomfortably on how much his stomach must have shrunk. He did get it down, however, and bolstered by the food, decided to go in and see Harry, and ask about the computer.

The office was quiet; Harry was alone – that was a good thing. He looked up, glowering, when Charlie stepped in; Harry wasn't in a good mood – that was a bad thing. Even if he was in a bad mood, he couldn't complain about free labor, Charlie thought to himself, and so he moved forward to Harry's desk anyway, his Bass King hat held respectfully in his hands. "Mr. Sackett, I had a question. I – uh – I'm working on a correspondence course – trying to get an accounting degree online, and well, I was wondering if, instead of paying me cash, if I could be allowed to use your computer."

Harry snorted. "My computer? Absolutely not."

Charlie stared at him – he'd never imagined that Harry would turn down the chance at free labor, and he was momentarily shocked into silence. "I – I wouldn't hurt it – I'm really pretty good on computers."

Harry actually grinned this time, a nasty smile. "And I'm supposed to trust you, after what you pulled last night? Comin' in pukin', causin' a ruckus at Doris' – oh, yeah, I heard all about it."

Charlie tried hard to recollect the night before. He had gotten sick, but he didn't remember causing a stir. "I – uh – don't really know why I got so sick," he said lamely. "It won't happen again." He looked at Harry pleadingly. "Please – it's really important that I finish this course – I already paid for it, and there's a deadline to turn in the work."

For a moment, Harry almost looked sympathetic; then he shook his head, brusquely. "There's an internet café in town – they've got computers. Use those. Now get back to work – you're lucky I still kept you on the job, after what you pulled last night."

Charlie stood there for a moment, his heart plummeting, thinking of the tank of gas that Don had just bought, his bagel, the bread and peanut butter Don was picking up – their hard earned cash, seeping away, bit by bit. They would never save up for a computer at this rate, and Harry's refusal was all his fault. Swallowing hard, he softly said, "Yes, sir," and turned and left quietly with his head down.

He didn't see Harry's head come up, and the look of thoughtful sympathy that crossed his boss' face, before he shook his head with an impatient growl, and returned to his work.

**...............................................................................**

* * *

End Chapter 13


	14. Plus Deposit

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 14: ****Plus Deposit**

Colby had been in the office since 4:00 a.m. Not only had the team been told to stop investigating the Eppes case and concentrate on the dock murder, which effectively tied his hands during regular business hours – he was frankly curious as hell, ever since Pat Stevens had called him. He had decided to do a little investigating of his own. It was a gross understatement to say that this entire situation did not sit well with him. First, two people as important as Don and Charlie could disappear, and be gone for less than a week, before the investigation into that disappearance was closed – by someone pretty high up the food chain. Then, surveillance equipment was found at Don's apartment; and as if that news was not bad enough, the ownership of that equipment was traced to the FBI itself. It was now painfully obvious that Don had found the listening devices himself, and probably other information that led him to distrust literally everyone – except Charlie. Now, the two of them were on the run, perhaps not even sure who they were running from, and Colby would be damned before he left them out there alone.

Stevens had sent the information available on the bugs, including their date of manufacture and lot number, to Granger's personal e-mail, on his home computer. He had printed the page and brought it with him to the office; now, he accessed the internal FBI database and searched inventory. God bless the internet. What would have taken hours at the beginning of Colby's career; days or weeks at the beginning of, say, A.D. Wright's; these days only took a few minutes. In no time at all, he had the information he wanted – and a little bit more. That lot of listening devices had been requisitioned in 1999, by the Las Vegas office; just a few months later, the entire lot was recalled by the manufacturer; apparently, there was a clarity of sound issue. The devices had been removed from inventory and replaced with a new lot from the manufacturer.

Colby leaned back in his chair and stared unseeing at the computer screen, the fingers of one hand tapping idly on the desk next to his keyboard. Someone in the Vegas office had pulled a fast one. Somehow, this individual had falsified documents well enough to convince The Powers That Be that the inventory had been purged – and then, had requisitioned the listening devices for a personal inventory. The next step was clear: find out who worked in the Vegas office during the time of the recall, in 1999.

He leaned forward again and navigated to the "history" section of the internal FBI website. On these pages, a database had been compiled that listed complete field office rosters, back to the beginning, including and beyond the J. Edgar Hoover days. The section even boasted a search engine. Colby was able to choose "Las Vegas", pull down a menu to "1999", hit "enter", and sit back and wait for the motherlode. While he waited for the results of his search to load, he figured he would have to investigate each agent to find the most likely suspect. It was nearing five a.m., and he hoped to get a good start on that before the rest of the team showed up. The rest he would have to save for more late-night or early-morning hours.

The search results displayed, and Colby took a notebook out of his desk so that he could write down the names. He decided he would start at the top, and work his way down. He poised his pen to scribble in the notebook, turned his attention to the screen – and literally stopped breathing.

In 1999, SAC of the Las Vegas field office was none other than James Montague, now the West Coast Director.

The pen slipped from Colby's hand and clattered to the floor. "Holy shit," he gasped, nearly panting as he hurriedly logged out of the system. By the time his breathing settled, his hands were still shaking on the keyboard. "Holy, holy shit," he repeated quietly.

He heard the elevator door open into the bullpen, but didn't look up; agents were coming and going at all hours, and at the moment, his concern was not for the poor bastard who got called in at 5 a.m. Right now, he had to decide what to do with this information. Could he tell anybody? Don had apparently decided that doing so was not a good idea, but if what Colby suspected was true, this was something he couldn't handle on his own. He chewed on his bottom lip, wondering if he should bring in David. Or, perhaps he should go outside the department entirely…maybe Walker? He pushed his chair back, deciding to go to breakfast and contemplate the possibilities. At the very least, he had to pull himself together before he faced David and the rest of the team in just a few hours.

He grabbed his keys off the corner of the desk, stood and pivoted, intending to stride toward the elevator. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Phillip Wright.

* * *

* * *

Don and Charlie were sitting on the back porch, sharing their sandwich. Don was making short work of his – despite Doris's satisfying and filling noon meals, his physical workload always had him starving again by evening – but Charlie was picking at the food the way he always did when preoccupied. Or, maybe he was still suffering the effects of his hangover – although biking 20 miles a day and working a minimum of six hours each of the last several days should have taken care of that, by now.

Don swallowed a mouthful of turkey, chased it with a healthy swig of bottled water, and lifted an eyebrow. "What's with you, tonight? This sandwich is awesome. Doris roasted the turkey and grew the tomatoes herself. I think she even made the pickles."

Charlie shoved his half of the sandwich at his brother. "Knock yourself out," he said crossly. "Did you spend some of our money on bottled water?"

Don regarded the sandwich with longing. "You need to eat," he pointed out. "And, no. Doris saw me chopping wood today, and brought a bottle out to me. I filled it again at the sink just before you got back from Harry's."

Charlie snickered, shoving the sandwich at Don again. "I'm not hungry," he insisted. "I don't suppose you had your shirt off when Doris felt the need to bring you water?"

Don grinned, reaching out to relieve his brother of the sandwich. "Maybe," he admitted. "If you get hungry later tonight, just get up and make yourself a sandwich," he advised. "We still have some jam, and peanut butter."

Charlie shuddered. "I never want to see peanut butter again. I think I'm just going with jam, tomorrow."

Don frowned. "You need some protein. Maybe we could get some cheese, or something…can you buy protein bars at Harry's?"

Charlie artfully deflected Don's interest in food. "I talked to Harry," he said woefully, finally coming clean with his brother. "He found out about my…little episode…after we went to the bar, and he was pretty pissed. Even made noises about firing me."

Don had been about to take a bite of sandwich, but lowered his hand and straightened his back instead. "You're kidding," he answered loudly. He moved as if to stand. "Maybe Doris will let me use her phone. I'll tell him it was my fault."

Charlie growled and swatted at Don as if he was a fly. "You stole a coupon for the bar, _Dave_, you didn't mainline beer into my veins." He waited until Don settled again before he broke the rest of the bad news. "He wasn't exactly in the mood to let me use his computer. He suggested I try the internet café in Idaho Falls."

Don felt his own appetite waning. "Shit," he said quietly.

Charlie squared his shoulders, and spoke resolutely. "We'll just have to be as careful as we can with our money," he said. "I had a couple of ideas. If you could get Doris to give you a trash bag – I'd ask, but she hates me – I see a lot of aluminum cans on my rides every day. I could gather them, and we could make a few dollars by collecting the deposits. Plus, I still only work part-time for Harry, since he has Matt, too…maybe I could find something else, too."

Don felt guilt and pride at the same time. Charlie was a tenured professor at one of the best universities in the country, a bona fide genius – and willing to collect cans for deposit money… wash dishes, mow lawns. Without question, he was ready to do whatever it took, so that he could get his hands on a computer and pull Don's ass out of the fire; a fire Don had pulled Charlie's ass _into_. He really had the best brother a guy could ask for.

He looked away, and swallowed some more water to stall until he was under control, again. "That's a good idea about the cans," he said gruffly. "I've noticed some in the trash receptacles in the campground when I empty them, so I could get some as well."

Charlie actually grinned into the dusk. "We're dumpster divers," he mused.

Don allowed himself a tiny smile too, then took another bite of sandwich. After he had chewed and swallowed, he shook the remainder of it in Charlie's direction. "No other jobs, though," he said firmly. "Maybe you don't work a full day for Harry, but you're riding your bike 20 miles a day to do it."

Charlie sighed and leaned against a porch rail. "Don't remind me," he moaned.

* * *

* * *

At first, Colby had wondered where A.D. Wright was taking him. Was he dirty, along with Montague? Was Colby walking into his own death sentence? He would have balked if the Assistant Director had tried to get him into the parking garage, or even his office; anywhere secluded. But the A.D. did not even ask for his piece, and he had to know Colby was carrying. He just suggested calmly that they go out to breakfast together, and they walked on foot, in the safety of public sidewalks, for several blocks, until they reached a tiny storefront diner sandwiched between a bank and a law firm. There were only eight booths and tables, and eight seats at an old-fashioned lunch counter; even though the place had just opened for the day, it was already half full. Granger and Wright slid into the very last booth in the back of the room. A slightly harried waitress brought them water, they ordered two specials, and then they sat and stared silently at each other for five minutes.

Wright caved first. He leaned forward, toward Colby on the opposite side of the booth. "I was in my office early this morning," he confided. "I was doing some research of my own, when I saw that you had logged into the internal system."

"I know you ordered us off the Eppes case," Colby responded. "I just wanted to tie up some loose ends…that's why I came in early, so it wouldn't interfere with our work on the dock murder."

"I see," remarked Wright, pausing to wait while the waitress placed platters of ham, eggs and hash browns before them. "And were you able to tie up those loose ends?" he asked when she left again.

Colby shrugged. "They're pretty loose."

Wright nodded, looked down to stir some ketchup into his hash browns, and then offered the bottle to Colby. Their hands briefly touched during the hand-off, and Wright waited until Colby was looking at him to let go of the ketchup. "I've discovered a few loose ends myself," he murmured. "I find myself in the somewhat awkward position of being unsure who I can trust."

Colby snickered, still looking directly into Wright's gaze. "Back atcha," he said.

Wright smiled slightly. "We both have weapons," he pointed out. "I could have killed you in the elevator, or during the walk here – but here I am, buying you breakfast."

Colby thudded the ketchup bottle onto the table top, unused. "I could have pushed you in front of a bus," he countered, "but here I am, staring at some over-easies."

Wright's smile widened. "I think we need to talk."

* * *

* * *

By Wednesday, temperatures in Heise topped-out at 75 degrees; a cold front was moving through, and summer storms were predicted. The break from an energy-draining heat was fine with Don, but Doris fretted over lunch.

"4th of July is only 10 days away," she noted, regarding the sky. "Tourism has been bad enough this summer without rain chasing away everybody on the biggest weekend of the year!"

"Maybe we'll just have a few days of showers," Don answered between bites of a lasagna that would have done Alan proud.

"Sure hope so," she answered morosely. "Been talking to Harry, and even the Hideaway still has vacancies on the weekends. Unheard of."

Don tried to change the subject, making what was, perhaps an unwise choice. "Ch... Chad said that Sally isn't there anymore."

A bark of disgusted derision emerged from Doris. "Always knew she was just a gold-diggin' tramp. As soon as the going got…hell, not even 'tough', just a little less _bountiful _– she found herself a rich doctor in the Falls. Left Harry high and dry, the little harlot."

Don tried a new topic. "So…your brother is a…deputy?"

She helped herself to more lasagna and shook her head. "_Sheriff_," she announced proudly. "Been the Sheriff of Jefferson County for 'most three years, now. It's a real dangerous job, you know, law enforcement."

He looked up sharply, but she was shoveling lasagna into her mouth and didn't seem to be sending any mixed messages. "I'm sure it is," he murmured.

She drank half a glass of creamy milk, then slammed the glass onto the table. She smiled at him, milk mustache and all. "You'll probably see Sam quite a bit in the next few weeks," she informed him. "He likes to patrol the campground in uniform around the 4th, make his presence known." She rolled her eyes. "He's my younger brother, but he still has a huge protective streak."

_Good to know_, thought Don. Aloud, he said, "I can understand that, Doris. You're a fine lady, and a man just wants to protect you."

She blushed to the roots of her graying hair. "Have some more lasagna," she offered.

* * *

* * *

Sam Jarrett stood behind his unit and waited for dispatch to get back to him regarding the Jeep he had just pulled over. His gut told him it was just a couple of bored teenagers speeding along the river road, and he let his mind wander, thinking again about the two men staying out at Doris's place. He had never been happy about her letting what amounted to transients stay in her house – especially now that she was alone – but at least she had installed some of the security measures he recommended. And, he had to admit, she had good instincts about people – at least, about everybody but Harry – and none of the seasonal workers had ever caused her a bit of trouble -- at least, not until this summer's first handyman got his DUI. So obviously, this Dave and his cousin certainly weren't the first to have a few beers; at least they didn't come roaring in at three in the morning singing _Goodnight, Irene_. Still, he had warned Doris to keep her eye on them, and she had laughed at him. "Dave's one of the hardest workers I've ever had," she insisted. "Maybe he ain't too smart for dragging that cousin of his around, but at least the little fella don't seem afraid of hard work himself. You know, he rides his bike to Harry's place and back, six days a week."

Still, Sam wished he had been able to get a better look at them. For some reason, those boys were just setting off an alarm inside.

His radio cackled, and dispatch reported no wants or warrants on the Jeep or its driver. Jarrett jerked back to the present, and opened his ticket book. He was about to give one of those rich summer kids his official rite of passage.

* * *

* * *

Charlie's appetite was shrinking with his stomach; on Thursday, he hadn't even eaten the half sandwich he had taken with him for lunch. For one thing, he was serious when he said that he was ready to be finished with peanut butter forever. For another, he had noticed that morning that the bread was starting to get moldy. He had cut the green spots away, but still, it was unappetizing to know they had once been there. Finally, his throat was sore when he woke up, and stayed that way all day. At least Harry had nice, cool water available for his employees; he kept several bottles in a bucket of ice out behind the cafeteria. Even though it was blessedly cool by the time Charlie biked back to Doris's, he had a pounding headache when he arrived. He had been lethargic on the trip, and he was almost twenty minutes later than usual.

It was too cool to sit out on the porch, so Don was waiting in the room, seated at the rickety table. He looked up when Charlie dragged in. "You're late," he said. "Did you stop a lot to pick up cans?"

Charlie let his pack slide off his back onto the floor. "I got a few," he shrugged. "I put them in the car."

Don nodded. "Hey; got a surprise, tonight. Doris made some chili and cornbread, because of the weather."

Charlie sagged onto the edge of the cot. "Go ahead and finish the chili before it gets cold," he advised. "I'll have some cornbread later."

Don frowned. "Charlie…," he began.

Charlie withdrew his prepaid cell phone from under the pillow. "Can I call Amita? I won't talk long, I want to save my minutes."

Don paused. As far as he knew, there was nothing new to tell her, but he could tell how important it was to Charlie. "Sure," he smiled.

Charlie scooted back so that he could lean his back against the wall while he spoke, and quickly hit the speed dial for the cell he had sent his fianceé. It only took her two rings to answer. "Charlie?" she said breathlessly.

He closed his eyes for a moment and almost started crying. "Amita," he finally rasped when he opened his eyes again. "I miss you so much."

He could hear suppressed tears in her voice, as well. "I miss you, too. Are you all right?"

Charlie nodded, then realized she couldn't hear him. "We're fine," he said.

A decidedly more masculine voice answered him. "Charlie? Son?" Charlie jerked so violently he almost fell off the cot, and Don, who had been trying to give him some privacy, looked up in concern.

"Dad?" Charlie whispered. Don swore quietly under his breath and rose from the table. He crossed the small room to sit next to Charlie on the cot.

"Amita didn't tell me anything," said Alan. "Your old man is not an idiot, you know."

Charlie did start crying, then, much to his embarrassment, and he thrust the cell toward Don. Don took it with one hand while he used the other to awkwardly pat Charlie on the leg. He raised the phone to his ear. "Dad?"

"Donny!" breathed his father. "Are you boys all right? I haven't said anything, to anyone. What can we do to help?"

Don smiled into the phone. "You're doing it right now," he answered. "You and Amita take care of each other, and Charlie and I will do the same."

"Do you want me to talk to Robin?" Alan asked.

Don sighed. "I wish I could risk that."

"She suspects that this has something to do with James Montague," Alan pointed out.

Don bristled. "Don't let her get into it. Montague's wife is an AUSA; she works in the same building as Robin! It's too dangerous…"

Alan interrupted. "David was here today. Montague ordered Wright to close the investigation into your disappearance."

"He's looking dirtier and dirtier," muttered Don. "As soon as we can get Charlie on a computer, we'll figure this out and come home."

"I hope so," sighed Alan. "I love you, son. I think Amita would like to speak with Charlie, again."

Don nodded. "Love you too, Dad. Go ahead and put her on." He handed the phone back to Charlie, who had composed himself somewhat. "Amita," he said softly.

Charlie took the phone and held it to his ear. "Hey, sweetie."

"Charlie, there must be something I can do for you," she begged.

Charlie hesitated, then asked her something that had been bothering him all the time he and Don had been gone. "Can you tell me about that man in my office?" he asked quietly. "I hit one of them with Albert Einstein. Did I kill him?" Don grimaced; of course, Charlie would be worried about that. It wasn't as if his little brother beat people over the head on a regular basis. Don was ashamed that he hadn't thought to talk about this with Charlie.

"No," Amita answered right away. "He has a fractured skull; David said he is still in the hospital, but he'll probably be transferred to county's infirmary, soon. Since he didn't have a Cal Sci visitor's badge, he had no right to be in your office, so even without your testimony, they can hold him on breaking and entering."

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," he said tiredly. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Again, Amita answered quickly. "Don't worry about me. I'm staying at the house with Alan; Larry went back to his apartment, today, but he's coming over soon to spend the evening with Alan."

"That's good," Charlie affirmed. "You and Dad need to make it seem like you're frightened, distressed."

"_We are_," Amita said. "We will be, until you're both home again."

Charlie felt like crying, again. "I love you," he whispered, his sore throat clogged with tears. "I'll call you again, soon."

* * *

* * *

Larry was back at the Craftsman for dinner. He had been there the morning before, when David stopped by to tell Alan that the case was being closed. The look of devastation on the elder Eppes' face almost made him change his mind about leaving, but in the end he decided that Alan and Amita could probably use some time alone with each other to adjust to this latest news, so he had gone ahead with his plans to return to his tiny apartment just off-campus. He had only lived there a few months; for several weeks after he left the monastery, he stayed with Alan and Charles while he waited for a vacancy to open up near Cal Sci; his own home still felt a bit foreign to him, truth be told. He had been somewhat surprised to discover that he no longer enjoyed living alone. First, he had had several roomies in close proximity during his time on the space station. He followed that experience with an extended stay at a monastery; although it was easy to find solitude there, and the brethren _were_ very quiet, still, he was always surrounded by other men. The Craftsman was always hopping, of course. Alan remained an active and vital individual, and Amita spent a great deal of time there. One reason he had finally moved _out_ was so that she might feel more free to move _in_ – less like she was taking on the job of "house mother" to a dormitory full of men. Before she took that step, though, Charles proposed to her – and then disappeared.

It wasn't right, and he was going to do his best to be a steadfast friend to both Alan and Amita during this trying time. He could do no less for Charles.

He took a small helping of cornbread stuffing – dear Megan had helped to broaden his tastes in food, among other things – and passed the dish across Charles's conspicuously empty chair, to Amita. "Is this your special recipe, Amita? The one we all enjoyed so during the Thanksgiving meal?"

She accepted the dish and smiled. "Yes, Larry. I know you liked the Indian spices I added, but take it easy – as I recall, they didn't exactly agree with you."

Alan laughed and passed Larry the green bean and slivered almond casserole. "Of course, maybe you just had too much to eat, in general."

Larry reddened slightly and decided to change the subject. "Amita, you might want to take a trip to campus and see what's become of your office. Maintenance has been repainting all the interior surfaces of the math and sciences building. They're trying to finish before summer session begins in two weeks, and I think they got all the paint at a clearance sale somewhere. My office is the most offensive shade of…orange. The workmen insisted the color is 'peach', but I intend to offer extra credit to the first student who will cover it with something more muted…say…."

"Off-white?" Amita guessed, taking the beans from Larry.

Alan smiled as he nudged Larry's hand with a plate of fried chicken. "Take all you want," he encouraged. "I made too much; Amita doesn't eat meat, you'll recall."

Larry nodded in answer to both remarks. "Perhaps if there are leftovers, I can take some home," he proposed to Alan before sitting the platter in the middle of the dining room table. Then he looked at Amita and raised an eyebrow. "Off-white is a very soothing color," he protested mildly.

Amita smiled and speared a bean with her fork. "If you'll be here with Alan for a while after dinner, maybe I'll go take a look tonight," she mused.

She chewed on the bean while Alan nodded thoughtfully and waved a chicken leg in her general direction. "That's a good idea, dear. You must be going stir-crazy, stuck here in the house with only an old man for company every day." He looked around the dining room and huffed. "Not exactly the exotic London evenings you were anticipating for this summer."

Amita stood and took a few steps to the head of the table, where she leaned over to embrace Alan fondly. "You're not an old man," she said, "and there is nowhere I'd rather be. I just wish Charlie was here with us."

Alan regarded Charlie's empty chair forlornly. "So do I, my dear. So do I."

* * *

* * *

Charlie was quiet all evening. He chewed listlessly on some cornbread before taking a hot shower; after, he stood at the window, gazing at the light rain that had begun to fall. Don left him alone for a while, pretending to read the book he had taken from lost and found. Finally, he stood and yawned. He stretched his arms over his head, then ambled over to stand behind Charlie. "We've got gas in the car," he said. "If it's still raining in the morning, I'll give you a ride to Harry's."

"You go to work before I do," Charlie responded tonelessly. "Besides, the gasoline is for emergencies. We can't afford to fill her up again.

Don rolled his eyes and sighed. "I'm sure Doris would give me a few minutes off."

To his surprise, Charlie huffed a small laugh. "Take off your shirt again, and she'll probably give you more than that," he teased.

Don grinned. "Shut-up," he answered. The two stood in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. "I know it's hard for you to talk to Amita; reminds you of how much you miss her."

This time, Charlie sighed before answering. "I don't need to be reminded," he pointed out. "I just feel…selfish, I guess. I go without hearing her voice as long as I can, but I can tell how much it upsets her when I call without any good news."

Again, Don marveled at his brother's depth of compassion. "At least Dad knows we're okay," he offered.

"True," Charlie agreed. "I hope the two of them can help each other act…concerned, in front of other people."

"I'm sure they _are_ concerned," Don noted quietly.

Charlie suddenly shivered, and began to rub his arms to generate warmth. "That makes three of us. I hope she's safe."

* * *

* * *

There were too many cars in the driveway. He waited for almost half an hour before he decided to try again later. He didn't want a lot of witnesses.

He started up the engine of his vehicle, and was just about to drive away from the Craftsman, when the kitchen door opened and Amita stepped outside. She was carrying her purse, and walked purposefully toward her car. She was going somewhere, alone; just in time for him to follow.

* * *

* * *

End, Chapter 14


	15. Trust Issues

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 15: ****Trust Issues**

The office Charlie had been given when he was named head of the Math Department was farther away from Amita's office than she liked. It was one floor higher, in the corner where the West and South wings met – and twice as big as hers, which was closer to the Northeast corner of the building. She missed being able to pop in to see him whenever she had time for a few extra steps; now, a visit had to be more intentional.

It was with intention that she took the staff elevator all the way to the third floor tonight. Ordinarily, she took the stairs, but even this early in the evening the campus was too quiet, and…spooky. Ever since the episode with Duryea, Amita found herself seeking out the safety of crowds. Since that was not possible on the deserted campus, she settled for the safety of the lesser of two evils. The elevator would get her where she was going faster, and there were no blind turns and twists that someone could be hiding behind.

Her sandaled feet echoed in the corridor when she got off the lift and headed towards Charlie's office. She had a key to his office on her ring, so she unlocked the door and swung it wide, moving only a step to stand in the doorway and flip on the light. Charlie's office was paneled in dark wood, and so had not been painted. It was neat, and un-Charlie at the moment; Larry had come by to straighten up as soon as David had said the authorities were finished in the office. If she recalled correctly – it was in the early days of the brothers' disappearance, before she had heard from Charlie, and it was difficult for her to breathe, let alone concentrate – Colby Granger had come over that first Saturday to help.

Her gaze was pulled to the corner of the large desk, where the bronze bust of Albert Einstein should have been. It had been an 'office warming' gift from her, and Charlie had loved the paperweight. He'd only had it for a few months, but she missed seeing it, anyway. It was almost impossible to imagine that he had been forced to defend his life with it.

She saw only the back of a small frame on the opposite corner of the desk, and knew without looking at the front what it was; a photo of her and Charlie on a hike at Big Bear; Larry and Megan had gone along, before Megan moved to Washington, and she had taken the picture. Hanging on a hook behind the desk was an old, moth-eaten, brown sweater (with leather patches on the elbows) that Charlie refused to give up. His mother had given it to him a few years before she died, and Amita knew he would keep the sweater forever.

Cautiously, she crossed the room to stand before it. She reached out a trembling hand to grasp the soft folds, then leaned forward and buried her nose in the knit fabric. The memories hit her like a brick between the eyes, and she actually staggered back a step. She had been staying at the Craftsman with Alan for over a week, but she was staying in the downstairs guest room. She had only been in Charlie's room once during that time, and she was still in shock; being surrounded by his things had not affected her like this. Tonight, inhaling his scent on the sweater, seeing his books and covered dry-erase boards wherever she looked; it was all suddenly too much. She spied a pair of slippers under the desk -- another gift from her, during a particularly grueling finals week last year -- and had to choke off a sob. Blindly, she let go of the sweater and literally ran from the office, nearly forgetting to turn off the light before she slammed the door.

Amita stood in the hall for a moment collecting herself; she almost felt as if she had escaped something horrible. Finally, she decided to risk taking the stairs for one flight down to her own office, and she turned right and started slowly down the corridor. There was a stairwell on the opposite end of the building that emerged just a few feet from her door, and that became her target. The hallway walls were also being painted, and she passed a 5-gallon paint bucket, then a ladder, before she followed the corridor north. She had been blinking back tears ever since running from Charlie's office, and she stopped in the middle of the hall to search through her purse for a tissue. When her own heels were not clicking on the linoleum floor, her ears picked up the soft rise and fall of another set of footsteps.

Her panic was instant, as she immediately flashed back to the night Duryea's girls had grabbed her on the street, wrenching her from Charlie. Her purse crashed to the floor and she took off running, too frightened to scream. She imagined that she could hear running behind her, as well, and a sob broke free from her throat as she careened around another corner, nearly slamming into yet another ladder. She skidded to a halt a few feet beyond the ladder; somehow, a muddled plan was managing to work its way into her terrified mind. The maintenance crew had left a paint tray attached to the ladder, with off-white paint still inside. Even in an almost paralyzed state, it occurred to Amita that someone would probably get fired the next day for not cleaning up his equipment. She definitely heard hurried steps rapidly approaching now, and she wrenched the tray from the ladder, splashing paint on her clothing and the floor. She waited as long as she could for her pursuer to round the corner. As soon as she caught a glimpse of a dark suit, she rushed toward it, screaming at the top of her lungs, and swinging the metal, paint-laden tray like a loaded bat.

* * *

* * *

"Rubbish," said Larry.

Alan looked at him blankly. "I beg your pardon?"

Larry shook his head. "Alan, you know as well as I do that the Latvian gambit is considered a rubbish opening. You've created a terrible weakness on the h5 to e8 diagonal. I don't believe I have _ever_ played a match against you that is destined to be over in nine moves."

Alan rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Larry; I knew chess was a bad idea. I just can't concentrate."

Larry clucked in sympathy. "It's quite understandable, Alan. You probably haven't slept a full night since Don and Charlie disappeared."

"No," Alan admitted truthfully. "I just want them both home, and safe."

"As do we all," agreed Larry fervently. "David said that there's a good possibility they're actually on assignment for another agency. We just need to trust them to do the right thing."

Alan snorted. "Who? The invisible agency, or my sons? Because frankly, if they _are_ working for another agency, that agency has already screwed up, as far as I'm concerned. Whisking them away in the middle of the night, and making us all sick with worry!"

Larry tilted his head in acquiescence. "I quite agree. I was referring to your sons, however. You can trust _them_ to do whatever it takes to return safely to us, as soon as possible."

Alan swallowed and looked away for a moment, blinking rapidly. "I'm sure you're right," he said when he faced Larry again. "But I just don't think I'm up to a chess game, tonight. Maybe we should stick with checkers."

Larry started to replace the ivory chess pieces in their case, relieved to be able to look away, if only for a moment, from his dear friend's pain. "I'd be honored," was all he said.

* * *

* * *

Phillip Wright had not risen to the position of Assistant Director without considerable talents of his own; among them, hand-to-hand combat. He was easily able to deflect the paint tray before it slammed into his jaw; it flew from Amita's hands to bounce harmlessly off the wall – but not before thoroughly spattering its contents liberally all over his three-piece suit, his hair, and half his face. Amita abruptly stopped screaming as soon as she recognized him, and regarded him with wary silence, backing away without really being aware of it. He stood with his hands slightly raised, paint dripping from his head onto the floor as he looked down at his suit. He raised his head to look at Amita through one eye as he reached up to wipe paint from the other eyelid. "I was hoping you could help me find Charlie," he deadpanned, "but I think I need to use the men's room, first."

* * *

* * *

Alan took one look at the expression on Amita's face as she hurried through the living room, and practically threw Larry out of the house.

Amita retreated to the downstairs guest room, leaving the excuses to Alan. She heard something along the lines of "poor dear; it's finally hit her", and sighed. Alan had no idea...but he was about to. She had been thinking about whether or not she should tell him ever since she and A.D. Wright parted ways at Cal Sci -- actually, she had left Wright there, since he insisted it was risky for them to be seen together; she had no idea where he had even parked, or how he had gotten into the Math and Sciences Building. Apparently, he had learned a thing or two about clandestine activity during his career. At first, she considered keeping the meeting secret from Alan, but by the time she got to the Craftsman, she had decided against it. Alan Eppes was one of the wisest people she knew, and highly intelligent; she was enough out of her element that she needed some solid counsel, on this. Besides, she could also use someone to watch her back -- and Alan already knew almost as much as she did.

She crept out of the guest room when she heard the front door close behind Larry. Within a few seconds, Alan was coming toward her across the living room. "What is it?" he asked worriedly. "Did Charlie..."

She put a finger to her lips and shook her head vehemently. Reaching out with her other hand, she grabbed Alan's wrist and pulled him through the dining room, kitchen -- and, after she heard Larry's car pull away -- out the back door. Alan came along docilely enough, but she could feel his impatience as he stilled his questions. When they were halfway to the garage, she dropped his hand and hugged herself around the midriff. "He's going to lend us some equipment, so that we can check the house and garage for listening devices." A tear rolled down her face unchecked. "God, I hope there aren't any...I took those calls from Charlie, and you and I have talked..."

Alan stood with his hand on his hips, in a stance reflecting anger. "Listening devices? Why on earth...and who is 'he'?"

"Bugs were found in Don's apartment," Amita shared, shivering a little, even though it was quite warm in the summer evening. "They were traced back to the FBI."

"Oh, my God," Alan breathed, letting his hands drop and dangle uselessly at his sides.

Amita further stunned him when she told him what had happened on campus. He stood silently for a moment, processing the news. "Do you think we can trust Wright?" he finally asked.

Amita had been thinking about that, too. She tilted her head. "He easily could have either killed me or kidnapped me tonight," she pointed out. "Plus, if that was his intention, why would he do it himself, and risk leaving evidence? Wouldn't he send someone else?"

Alan played devil's advocate. "If it's the boys he's after; he might be using you to try to find them."

Amita chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. "Then why the warning about listening devices? He wouldn't even talk to me in my office; he pulled me into the men's room."

"What?" Alan asked sharply.

She shrugged. "He had to wash off some paint," she explained, blushing slightly. "We both did, actually."

Alan's white teeth flashed in the night. "I can't believe you went after an attacker with a loaded paint tray..."

Amita allowed herself a tight smile before she reined the conversation back in line. "Besides, what better way to pull Charlie out of hiding than to dangle me as bait?"

"True enough," Alan murmured.

"He wants us to come by the office tomorrow," she continued. "You and I have been stopping by every couple of days to check on the investigation, so that will look normal to anyone watching. He said he'll make sure most of the team is in the field."

Alan frowned. "If people within the FBI are involved, they'll know the case has been closed."

"I mentioned that," Amita concurred. "But he says distraught family members drop by all the time when a case is closed before it's solved, trying to relight the fire under the investigation."

Alan rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, shoving the other one in the pocket of his jeans. "Wait a minute," he said. "Did you say 'most' of the team will be out of the office?"

Amita began to absently rub at her arms. "This is where it gets really strange," she warned. "Wright says that Colby Granger is working with him."

Alan emitted a low whistle. He paced a few steps away from her, then turned and came back. "God forgive me," he nearly whispered, "but this wouldn't be the first time Granger played for both teams."

She nodded, and lowered her own voice. "I know. That's why I need your take on this. Do you think we can trust Colby?"

Alan considered. "Obviously, Don didn't," he finally said. "But he didn't trust Wright, either. I think he just didn't have enough information, before the attack, to know _who_ he could trust."

"That's probably true," Amita conceded.

They stood in silence for a few more seconds before Alan spoke again. "I say, let's find out more," he finally recommended. "We'll go tomorrow, hear what they have to say. Sometimes, a parent can learn from his child -- and if there's one thing that Don has taught me, it's that sometimes, you have to go with your gut."

* * *

End, Chapter 15


	16. Missing: One Brother

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 16: ****Missing: One Brother**

Charlie staggered once as he crossed the few feet between the rickety table, where he had just finished making half a peanut butter sandwich that he had absolutely no appetite for, and the cot where Don lay sleeping. He steadied himself with a hand against the wall before he painfully slung the backpack straps over his shoulders, and moved to lean as far over the cot as he dared. As it was, he gripped Don's shoulder more to brace himself than to shake his brother awake. "Do..._Dave!_ Dave, wake up!" His throat was still sore and his voice was raspy, and he gladly would have traded some of his precious money for a bottle of pain reliever; there was a dull ache behind his eyes that threatened to explode into a full-on migraine.

Don jerked awake and his hands shot out to push Charlie away. "What? Where?" He was almost shouting as he struggled into a sitting position.

Charlie would have laughed if he hadn't suspected that it would hurt -- and if he wasn't fighting to maintain his balance. Falling onto the floor at Don's feet was most definitely not a good idea. He managed a thin smile. "You overslept -- must be the sound of rain on the roof. You'd better hurry; Doris expects you at work in twenty minutes."

Don perched on the edge of the cot and yawned. "Overslept?" he confirmed, yawning again. Then he took in Charlie's appearance and frowned. "What are you doing? You can't ride your bike to work in this rain."

Charlie walked carefully toward the door, turning around to argue as forcefully as he could. "The rain is letting up...and that's why I'm leaving early, so I can take my time and be careful. I packed my lunch, and I'm wearing one of the sweatshirts I got at that yard sale."

Don started to stand. "Charlie..." he began, his tone full of warning.

Charlie opened the door, and backed halfway through. "D..._Dave_," he said seriously, "do you know how screwed we are if you lose this gig with Doris? Not only will we NEVER save enough for a computer, we'll have to spend all we have left on living expenses. I'll be fine -- it's barely sprinkling, right now. I certainly rode to work in worse than this, before I got my license."

Don ran a hand over his hair in frustration. "Dammit; you should've woken me earlier."

"I'm leaving," Charlie answered firmly. "If you hurry, you can grab a quick shower. See you this afternoon."

Charlie slipped through the door, and Don took a step toward him. "If it's raining this afternoon, I'm coming after you!" he promised. Charlie's answer was to shut the door in Don's face, who swore again and looked around for his jeans. He would be sweating in the rain all day anyway; the shower could wait until later, he decided.

It wasn't until be looked toward the small table, that he noticed that Charlie had left the plate that Doris left for Don in the bathroom every morning, containing the day's shared bagel. Recently, she had taken to leaving a banana, as well. Both were still on the plate in their entirety; Charlie had not eaten his half of breakfast.

* * *

At 11:45 a.m., Alan and Amita entered the elevator in the FBI building. Amita pressed the '7' on the control panel, and Alan started to move his hand toward the '3'. "You pushed the wrong button, dear."

Amita stayed his hand. "A.D. Wright said to come to his office. He was going to have it swept for bugs this morning; it's routinely done at least once a week in the executive offices as a security measure. Anyone who notices the lab technician shouldn't find his presence unusual."

Alan wasn't sure if he was impressed – or terrified. As he disembarked the elevator and followed Amita down the hall, he decided he was both.

Wright's outer office was empty; his secretary always went to lunch from 11:30 to 12:30. When Amita knocked on his door, Colby opened it, his finger to his lips. A man in a white lab coat stepped up behind him; Colby stepped aside so that the technician could wave a wand – first, over Amita's body and the purse she was carrying, then over Alan. It was a little like preparing to board an aircraft; and indeed, Alan thought, they were no doubt in for a bumpy ride. At length the lab technician pronounced them "clean."

Colby smiled at the lab tech. "Thanks, Pat. We've got it from here." The tech nodded and squeezed past Alan as Colby continued. "Amita, Alan. Come on in."

As they entered the office, Phillip Wright stood behind his desk and indicated the chairs drawn up in front of it. "Please be seated. Mr. Eppes – when Amita told me that you have been in contact with your sons, I thought it best to include you in this discussion. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," responded Alan, holding a chair for Amita while she sat, and then taking one for himself. "Although I suppose if we're all going to be spies together, we should be on a first-name basis. Call me Alan."

Colby suppressed a snort, and even the Assistant Director smiled as he reclaimed his chair. "You have a point, Alan."

He looked pointedly at Colby Granger. "For the sake of this investigation only, everyone may, of course, refer to me as 'Phil'."

"Not sure I can do that, Assistant Director," interjected Colby.

"Do try," Wright answered drily. He looked back to Alan and Amita. "We must hurry; I'd like to finish before my secretary returns from lunch."

"Do you know why Don and Charlie left?" asked Amita.

"Perhaps," Wright mused. "I know that Don's team discovered a small electronic funds transfer fraud during a recent homicide investigation. The fraud was not related to the crime, and Don handed it to the Secret Service – EFT falls within its jurisdiction. Apparently, he was concerned that the small amount of money involved in the fraud would land the case near the bottom of the SS heap; he continued to look into it on his own. A few days before he and Charlie disappeared, Don came to me to show me that he had found several other instances of electronic theft at small businesses – in L.A., and up and down the West Coast – all in amounts too small to generate much interest. He wasn't sure yet that there was a connection between the cases, but he asked if this office could take some of the individual cases back from SS, and look into it."

Amita and Alan were hanging on every word, and Wright leaned back a little in his chair before he continued. "I contacted West Coast Director James Montague, who issued an unusual 'direct order' for Don to stop all investigation into the matter. I confess, I found the Director's attitude a little off-putting and excessive, but he can be a difficult man in the best of circumstances, so I didn't think about it too long."

Colby suddenly joined the conversation. "The rest of this is just conjecture. Assistant…_Phil_…told you last night, Amita, that listening devices were found in Don's apartment. By the way, Alan, Pat is on his way to the Craftsman right now to do a sweep; I gave him the spare key out of Don's desk. I hope you don't mind."

Alan waved a hand at him impatiently. "Fine, fine…just go on, son."

Colby smiled at the term of endearment. "Anyway, we're thinking that somehow, Don found the bugs after Montague issued his direct order, and he got Charlie involved in the clandestine investigation. They might have found something that convinced them not to trust anyone here at the FBI, or any of Charlie's government contacts."

"Why do you say 'might'?" interrupted Alan. "It seems pretty obvious to me!"

Granger shrugged. "It's mostly the timeline, Alan – Charlie's fast, but not that much time elapsed before whatever happened in his office. Someone knew Don was looking into things, but the guys were attacked when they were together – in Charlie's office, so it looks like that same someone knew Charlie was in, as well."

"They were both using computers," said Amita quietly, connecting the dots. "Whoever is behind this could have traced the IP addresses."

Wright took over again. "We think that's a very real possibility. Now, we can think of a way to get the files for the original homicide, and start the investigation from scratch. Eventually, we'll find whatever Don found – but we certainly don't want anyone to realize we're looking. Amita, can you design an application that masks IP addresses?"

Everyone was looking at her, but Amita didn't notice. She stared intently at the floor, frowning. "I think I could come up with an algorithm that recognizes when a computer's IP address is being accessed," she began, thinking aloud. "That recognition could start a secondary program running; it would bounce the IP address around, make it look as if it was coming from somewhere else. I could run it through a series of random addresses throughout the country, in fact – they'd know they were being misled, but they'd have no idea which address was the right one."

Wright looked interested. "How long would something like that take?"

Amita glanced almost wildly at Alan. "It's the kind of thing I would help Charlie with; Larry would probably be involved, as well. Alone…"

Alan reached out to grasp one of the hands in her lap. "You can do it," he smiled. "Charlie says that you can do anything."

She blinked back tears and squeezed his hand while she took a deep breath. She looked at Colby, and then at Phillip Wright. "It could take a few days," she admitted despondently. "Isn't there something we can do first?"

Wright shook his head. "It's imperative that our actions, once begun, not be detectable," he said. "If this team is compromised, who will be left to help Don and Charlie?" The question effectively silenced everyone else in the room, and after letting them consider the consequences for a moment, he went on. "We can't meet here as a group again; you'll have to do the work at home. Do you have the right equipment?"

Amita nodded. "Charlie has enough equipment in the garage to embarrass Bill Gates," she said. Alan and Colby laughed, and even Phil Wright smiled. "Plus, if I need computing power, I can hook into the computers at Cal Sci. They have plenty of excess capacity in the summer."

"Good," he nodded. "Agent Granger will plant a cover story downstairs just in case there's undue curiosity about your visit to my office."

"I'll let it drop to a few people that Alan and Amita showed up to beg you to reopen the case," Granger suggested. "You had to call me up here to help calm Amita down."

Wright nodded. "That could work," he said. "I also suggested that you visit them at home regularly, since you're close to the family, and this is a difficult time. That way, you can keep an eye on Amita's progress. Cause some sort of altercation in the bullpen – no broken noses, or anything, just something that requires disciplinary actions. I'll need reason to call you up to my office on a regular basis."

Colby grinned. "Not a problem."

* * *

The rain picked up to a steady downpour by lunchtime, and Charlie hunched miserably under an awning set up behind the cookhouse and picked at his sandwich. His luck – all of it bad -- was running in a streak: Harry wouldn't let him use his computer; he had a cold during a summer storm; and even though the campground was half-empty, he had to work twice as hard as usual, since Matt picked last night to break his ankle square dancing with Gloria. Matt was going to try to get back to work before the fourth, but he wouldn't be able to do much on crutches.

So far that day, he had restocked the firewood shed (which was closer to empty than usual, the weather having encouraged campers to keep fires going all day); cleaned the restrooms (where he had fought the smell as long as he could, and had eventually thrown up in a freshly scrubbed toilet); mowed the sloping lawn around the main house and the children's play area (holding onto the industrial-size riding lawn mower for dear life, as it bucked him mercilessly across the terrain); and helped cover the check-ins and check-outs (Sally having disappeared just a few days after he was hired; which probably also accounted for Harry's sour attitude, the last several days). The tendrils of hair that weren't quite long enough for him to catch in his new pony tail had been plastered to his head with a mixture of sweat, rain and fever for hours, and Charlie was miserable enough to let Don come and pick him up when he got off that afternoon. Usually, he worked until three or four, but with Matt out, Harry had asked him to stay until six. Charlie had used his prepaid cell to call Don, who had then arranged with Doris to take the truck into Heise to the mechanic – the engine hadn't been running right; he would pick Charlie up on the way back.

Charlie sighed, rubbed the back of his aching neck, and hoped he could last that long.

* * *

David Sinclair followed Liz and Nikki out of LAPD's Parker Center and shook his bald head. "I don't get it. Did Walker honestly think that guy was good for the dock homicide?"

Nikki bristled, as she always did whenever she felt that LAPD or one of its finest was being maligned. "You heard the suspect; he confessed! The Lieutenant was doing us a favor when he called us down here."

Liz stopped on the sidewalk and turned around to face Nikki, her eyebrows raised. "He confessed to killing Princess Diana, as well, Nikki -- even though he's never been out of Los Angeles and doesn't even have a passport. You have to admit, it was a little out of character for Gary Walker to take the guy seriously. He's usually more...street-smart."

"This must be Walker's idea of a joke," said David. "About the time the suspect started to tell us about the secret messages he receives from the KGB, I started to wish I was at the dentist with Granger!"

Liz laughed and Nikki flashed a cocky smile. "The Loo _still_ did us a favor," she insisted. "There's a cop hang-out about two blocks from here -- the deli sandwiches are out of this world. Anybody for lunch?"

* * *

Alan paused outside Robin's open office door and tapped lightly to get her attention. She looked up, and stood immediately. "Alan! I heard that the FBI back-burnered the missing persons case. I'm so sorry."

He tried for a sad smile and let his feet wander toward her office window. "As am I, I assure you. You have such a lovely view, Robin; how do you get any work done?"

Robin crossed over to the window and stood beside him; they both had their backs to the door. "The view is not what has been distracting me, lately," she murmured.

Alan made a conciliatory noise. At the same time, he held his hand in a "thumb's up" position; his body blocked all view of his gesture to anyone but Robin. He heard a quick intake of breath, but it could easily have been mistaken for a sigh, if anyone was listening. "Amita is beside herself with worry," he said. "We went to the Bureau this morning and begged Wright to reconsider. He was very sympathetic, but the answer was still 'No'. I had to take the poor girl home in tears; she's gone out to Charlie's garage and just shut herself away from all of us."

"I feel like doing the same thing," Robin said, trying to pick up on all of Alan's unspoken clues. She could see in the reflection off the window glass that he was smiling almost happily. "I'll try to come by tonight after work; do you think she would see me?"

"I think that's a safe assumption," Alan answered. "I'm sure you two ladies have a lot in common, right now.... In fact, why don't you come for dinner? Larry's been coming to spend the evenings with me, and I'm afraid she'll just stay out in that garage all alone, thinking about Charlie."

Robin wasn't even sure why, but she was feeling a surge of hope since Alan dropped by. She smiled at his reflection -- and was sure that he winked back at her. "It's a date," she said.

* * *

Don glanced again at his watch, and walked impatiently through the rain to the back of the gas station, to the service bay. One lone mechanic worked -- at a snail's pace, in Don's opinion -- on Doris's truck. "How much longer do you think this will take?" he demanded. "I need to get on the road!"

The mechanic stopped working entirely and stared at Don with rheumy eyes. "Doin' the best ah can," he answered laconically. "The connection to your engine computer's bad – got a service bulletin on it, and I gotta replace a lead. Them's touchy things, all them little terminals, an' if you don't splice 'em in just right you'll get a short. Once I get that done, I gotta do a shorts test and check for continuity." He puffed his chest out a little. "All these new fangled computer in cars these days, a fella needs to know what he's doin,' and there ain't no rushin' things. Ah'm staying open late for ya as it is, young feller."

Don reigned in his impatience. It wouldn't help for him to end up stuck in Heise without a vehicle. "I appreciate it," he mumbled, wishing again that he'd brought the prepaid cell with him. He hadn't thought he'd need it, and he and Charlie were sharing the one charger Charlie bought; Don had noticed that he was almost out of bars when Charlie called earlier, so he took the phone by the room and plugged it in. It was still charging when he was ready to leave, so he just left it there. Now, he had no way of calling Charlie to tell him he'd be late; Charlie's cell number was programmed into the cell Don was using, and he hadn't bothered to memorize it. "_Stupid_," he whispered to himself as he trudged through the mud to continue waiting in the office.

He started to sit in the single straight-back chair, checked his watch again and eyed the telephone on the cluttered desk. Finally, he moved to the desk, found a phone book under at least a bushel of greasy papers on the desk, and looked up the number for Snake River Lodge. Within seconds, he had Doris on the phone. "It's Dave," he informed her. "The truck needed work on the engine computer; I'm at Singer's Automotive now."

Doris sounded harried. "Oh, great," she groaned. "Did you at least get over to Samson's Iron Works first? I wanted you to start installing those new fire grates tomorrow!"

"They're in the back of the truck," Don assured Doris. He heard her sigh of relief and cashed in a chip. "Listen, I hate to ask, but I was going to pick up Chad at six at Harry's, so he wouldn't have to ride back in the rain. I wonder if you could call over there and ask Harry to have him wait for me?"

"Why the hell didn't you just call the Hideaway instead of me?" she whined, exasperated. "Sam's due for dinner any minute, and the damn pilot light went out."

Don wondered if being on the run had dulled his senses; he couldn't figure out himself why he hadn't called Harry. "You're sweeter," he finally answered lamely.

There was a moment of silence before Doris spoke again -- this time in a voice like buttered syrup. "Go on with ya," she said almost shyly. "You just sit tight; I'll give Harry a call. You say you're at Singer's? I'll call you back if there's a problem."

Don thanked her, hung up, and returned to the uncomfortable chair. He was reading a glossy brochure about snow tires when the shrill ring of the phone startled him so much that he dropped the brochure. He looked quickly through the window to see if the old mechanic was hobbling his way. Discovering that he was not, Don hurried to answer the phone before an answering machine did. "Singer's Automotive."

"Well, don't you just sound la-di-da," Doris teased. "All Bobby ever says is 'Yu-up.'"

Don laughed. "Hey, Doris. Did you get in touch with Harry?"

"That's the thing," she answered. "Might as well come on back to the Lodge when the truck's finished. Harry said Chad waited until almost 6:30; tried to call you a couple of times, and finally took advantage of a lull in the rain to start back on his bicycle. It's near-on 7:00, now."

Don swore under his breath. "Thanks for trying, Doris," he said dejectedly.

"Don't you fret, now," she said cheerfully. "A little rain won't hurt your cousin." Before Don could respond, he heard the _ding_ of the oven in the background. "Oh! There's my roast," Doris announced. "Sam should be here any minute. I'll leave your sandwich in the bathroom for you; how does warm roast beef sound? I'll wrap it up in some aluminum foil; it'll stay warm for hours. I'll leave a jar of horseradish sauce for ya, too."

Don's stomach grumbled so loudly he thought Doris might be able to hear it over the phone. He could eat three or four roast beef sandwiches on his own, he was sure...but half was better than none. "Sounds great," he said truthfully.

"Don't be tracking in any mud when you git back!" she warned, and then abruptly hung up, without so much as a "good-bye."

* * *

Because Larry was at the dinner table, the others did not get to speak freely. Amita disappeared to the garage immediately after the meal, as Alan had predicted. Robin helped clear the table and load the dishwasher after the meal, trying not to appear too anxious. She sat in the living room and talked for a while with Larry and Alan, until Alan suggested to Larry that they try another chess game. Finally, she hurried to the garage, knocked once on the door, and pushed it open. Amita looked up from behind a laptop on the old, battered desk. "Come in," she smiled. "We can talk freely, here. A.D. Wright sent a lab technician to sweep the house and garage for listening devices, and we're okay."

Robin was shocked. "What?"

Amita checked the laptop to see how her program was progressing, then moved to the old, overstuffed couch. "Have a seat," she invited, patting the cushion beside her. "It's a long story."

* * *

It was well after 8 o'clock before Don pulled the truck into the campground. The gloomy weather made the evening a bit darker than it usually was at that time; he was even using the truck's headlights during the last few miles. He frowned when he did not see Charlie's bicycle in its usual place under the covered back porch. Sam Jarrett's police cruiser was parked in back, though; maybe its presence had spooked Charlie, and he had left the bike somewhere else -- although Don couldn't think of where. Nowhere else was out of the rain, and Charlie hadn't left a bike lying out in the weather since he was eight years old.

Don pulled the truck around to the side of the house and made his way inside, through the back door. The wing that housed the small room and bathroom that he and Charlie shared also housed Doris's laundry area; every couple of days, Charlie, who was usually home before Don got off work, washed and dried their meager supply of clothing. Don glanced inside as he hurried past; no Charlie. He stopped at their room long enough to open the door and peer in – still no Charlie. He continued on down the short hall to the bathroom. The door was standing open; there was a paper bag containing the dinner Doris had promised sitting on the edge of the sink – but no Charlie. Don grabbed the bag and walked more slowly back to the room. He had left the door standing open, and he walked to the small table to set down the dinner bag. He could smell the freshly cooked roast beef through several layers of aluminum foil and paper; again, his stomach rumbled in anticipation. Don sat down, and looked at his watch again - 8:00. Normally, Charlie covered the distance between Snake River Lodge and Harry's Hideway in forty-five minutes. The rain would have slowed him down, but it had now been over an hour and a half since Charlie left Harry's. Don hesitated for only a few seconds before he stood and headed toward the door.

He was going after his brother.

* * *

End, Chapter 16


	17. Revelations

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 17: Revelations**

Charlie hunched over the handlebars, bowing his head against the cold rain. He was shivering, aching, and had been since the ride started. He'd finally started back when Don hadn't shown up, and at the time Charlie had enough wits left to be worried – it was very unlike Don to not be there, and not call. He'd tried calling once already, and had almost gone in to ask Harry to use the phone again, but a glance through the office window showed Harry on the phone himself, deep in a conversation that appeared to be serious. Charlie waited for a bit, but when the conversation showed no sign of ending, he decided to try to ride back. He was hoping Don was just having problems with the truck; it needed to be repaired, after all, but a sense of uneasiness spurred him to get on the road, to try to get back and find out what was going on.

That had been over an hour and eight miles ago; he was traveling at half his usual speed. He'd felt weak and dizzy when he started the ride, but at least he'd been thinking lucidly. He'd quickly found that pedaling seemed much more difficult than usual. He was breathing deeply after a quarter of a mile; his legs felt like lead, and he couldn't get enough air. He'd been soaked to the skin after a mile, and with the dark clouds and receding daylight, the temperature was dropping. In spite of the exertion, he soon began shivering, and after five miles, he'd begun to lose coherent thought. Now, a little over a mile from home, he was weaving a little, his vision wavering, and all he could focus on was one mechanical leg movement after the other, pressing down on pedals that seemed to offer more resistance with each push.

A car blasted past him and he jerked, startled as a stinging wave of water hit him. The bike wobbled precariously, and just then another vehicle flew by, laying on the horn as the driver saw him at the last minute in the gathering gloom. Charlie wrenched the handlebars toward the side of the road as the car sped past. He went too far, however, the front tire caught a rut where the road met the gravel berm, and he suddenly found himself veering off road, bounding, lurching out of control down the grassy embankment. The front tire hit a mound of dirt and the bike flipped, throwing him right over the handlebars into a dense mass of blackberry brambles. He lay there stunned for a moment; the thicket had cushioned his fall and prevented any broken bones or worse, but his head reeled, and he had to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a few seconds to quell the dizziness. He was dimly aware of the sound of another vehicle approaching and he opened his eyes, squinting against the rain, only to see Doris' truck speed by. It was too dark and too rainy to see the occupant, but Charlie felt a little rush of relief – it had to be Don coming back from Heise – followed by a surge of disappointment. It had to be Don – and Don hadn't seen him in dimness and the rain, down off the road as he was.

Groaning a bit, he carefully pulled himself from the clinging blackberry tendrils and tottered to his feet. There, he swayed for a minute, staring dumbly at the bicycle. It was getting hard to think straight; the world was dissolving into a dim gray wetness, and somehow, Charlie knew he wouldn't be able to keep upright on the bike any longer, if he even had the strength to get it up the embankment. He left it where it lay, and clambered painfully back up onto the road, and began to walk the last mile. He was shuddering violently now, incapable of thinking of anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, his head bent against the rain.

* * *

Don had just made up his mind to go look for Charlie and headed for the door of the room, when he realized he'd left the truck keys on the small table in the corner, and turned and snatched them up. He strode back toward the door and yanked it open, only be greeted by an apparition.

Charlie stood in the doorway. He'd lost his ball cap; his hair had come out of its ponytail and hung in sodden tendrils that were plastered to his face. He was pale, dripping wet, and had a fresh red scratch on his cheek. He didn't say a word, just stood there with a blank look in his eyes that set Don's heart to lurching. He was about to upbraid him for being so pig-headed and riding home in the rain, when suddenly Charlie's eyes rolled back in his head, and he pitched forward.

Don reacted instinctively and bent, catching him under the arms, but Charlie was completely limp, his limbs floppy, and wet as he was, it was all Don could do to hang onto him, and he almost went down himself. As it was, he really couldn't keep a good grip, and he eased Charlie to the floor; lying him gently on his back. "Charlie?"

The name came out fearfully, and Don's heart settled into a painful thump as he noted that Charlie's skin had a blue cast, and his lips were purple. There was no response; Charlie's eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side. Don fumbled for a pulse, breathing a little easier as he felt one, but Charlie felt abnormally cold. '_Hypothermia_,' Don muttered to himself, anxiously, and he immediately began to strip off Charlie's sodden clothes. Sweatshirt and jeans, then the T-shirt. Don tossed the limp garment in a pile with the other clothes, and then stopped dead as he turned back to Charlie, his heart dropping. Charlie's bones were prominent, ribs and clavicle could be seen clearly, and hipbones were visible outlines under Charlie's boxer shorts – he was nothing short of emaciated. "God, Charlie," Don whispered, sickened by the sight. The boxer shorts were soaked through also, and Don removed them too, slowly, gently, as if he feared that Charlie was so fragile, he might shatter like glass.

Charlie was still cold and unmoving, and that and his skeletal appearance pulled Don out of his trance, as he felt panic begin to spiral inside. He grabbed a towel, quickly dabbed of any excess moisture and briefly toweled Charlie's sodden hair. Fumbling, he awkwardly guided limp legs into a pair of clean, dry boxers. Then he squatted and slid his arms underneath his brother, and with a grunt, lifted him, depositing him gently in the bed. He pulled up the blankets, grabbed one of Charlie's hands, and rubbed it between his own. "Charlie. Charlie, wake up."

The lack of response was frightening, and Don felt for a pulse again. He was still so cold. Was his heartbeat slower than before? "Damn it!" he exclaimed, and shot to his feet, pacing. He stopped and stared at the pale face for a split second, and then turned and wrenched open the door that led to the rest of house, and darted down the hall.

* * *

Sam Jarrett sank into Doris' kitchen chair, and sipped gratefully at the hot cup of tea she had placed in front of him. "Thanks, Dorie. Nasty night out there."

Doris eyed him, taking in his plaid shirt and jeans, still lightly speckled with drops of rain. "What time did you get off duty?"

"'Bout seven," he said, sniffing appreciably as she set a steaming plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes in front of him. He glanced toward the counter. "Do I see pie?" he said, his eyes twinkling at her over his cup of coffee.

She nodded back with a smile. "You must be hungry, then."

He was. He worked long hours as sheriff – county funding was such that he had to – he didn't have enough deputies, but he didn't mind it. It was good to be back in his hometown, and the work was a lot less stressful than it had been as a Denver detective. He eyed his younger sister over his cup. "You look like a puppy in a room full o' chew toys. What are you grinnin' about?"

Doris' smile widened a bit, and she blushed. "Oh, Harry's been callin' me," she said. "He told me today that Sally didn't leave him for a doctor – that was just a rumor that got started. He said she moved back to Idaho Falls because he told her to go."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And you're listenin' to _him_?"

Her face turned defensive. "He says he made a mistake, Sam. Everyone makes mistakes." Her voice lowered, and she said, shyly, "He wants me to come back to him."

Sam's face softened a bit, but he still looked unconvinced. "And so you're just gonna run right back, just like that?"

She smiled a little, with a twinkle in her eye that looked a lot like his. "Who said I was? No, I'm makin' him stew a little, first. What'd you take me for?"

Sam chuckled. "That's my girl. You just -,"

He got no further – there was the sound of quick footsteps, and the door between the back hallway and the kitchen burst open. Sam rose immediately to his feet, his hand headed for the pistol he kept on his belt, on duty or off, but he froze as he saw Dave Manning standing in the doorway, his dark eyes and beard standing out against a face that looked unusually pale.

"I'm sorry," Manning stammered to Doris, "I know you said not to use this door – but it's Ch- Chad. There's something wrong."

Sam let his hand drop from his holster to his side, but he remained standing, watching Manning's face as Doris said, "What? What's wrong?"

"I didn't get out of Heise in time to pick him up," said Manning, his words tumbling out. "He rode back on his bike in the rain. It was getting late, and I was just going to go out and look for him, when he showed up at the door. He was soaked, and seemed out of it – and then he just passed out. I can't wake him up. He's ice cold – I got his wet clothes off and got him in bed, but I'm afraid he's got hypothermia –," Manning's face changed as a thought occurred to him, "- or he might even have been in an accident – he had some scratches on him. I didn't check his head – maybe he has a concussion."

Doris' brow had knitted in concern, and she shot a glance at Sam. "Sam – can you do me a favor? Run down the hill and pick up Doc Johnson. He's retired from his practice now, but he's helped me out before with sick campers."

Sam moved next to her. "Let's go back and take a look first," he murmured, "then I'll go." It wasn't that he didn't trust the Mannings, necessarily; they seemed to be decent folk, but he'd met killers during his career in Denver who seemed like decent folk, too. And there was something about them that had made his radar go up. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but he had the feeling they weren't exactly what they seemed.

They found Chad Manning just the way that Dave had described – out cold – and literally, cold, so Dave was being straight with them, at least on that much. As instructed, Sam jumped in his car and went down the hill a mile, then down a short course of gravel road – almost missing the turnoff in the rain - to Doc Johnson's retirement cabin, in the woods. They were back in moments, and by that time, Doris had plugged in a heating pad, which she'd placed in bed with the young man, and he was beginning to stir, and in fact, was starting to look a little flushed.

Doc Johnson knelt and pulled back the covers a bit in order to place his stethoscope on the young man's chest, and the group, except for Dave, collectively took in their breath. The doctor raised a bushy gray eyebrow at them. "Does he have a chronic illness? Or has he simply not been eating?"

Sam watched with interest as Dave Manning's mouth opened and closed – he seemed at a loss for words, and he didn't seem the type to be flustered. Flustered was exactly what Doris appeared to be, as she stammered – "I'm letting him stay here, but he doesn't work for me – I only feed my workers."

Dave Manning looked down at his feet, then up, dejectedly. "We've been sharing my breakfast and the sandwich at night. He's been getting lunch at Harry's – but he rides twenty miles on his bike each day, there and back, on top working all day. He was supposed to be taking a sandwich as a snack every day, too." His shoulders sagged. "It must not have been enough." As if to prove his point, he strode suddenly to the corner and fished around in a grocery bag, pulling out a package of bread and a jar of peanut butter, and frowned at the items.

Sam turned to see Doris gaping at Dave Manning, stricken. "You were _sharing_ your breakfast and dinner?"

Dave lifted the loaf of bread, which was only about one third gone, miserably. "We were trying to save money. From the looks of this, Ch- Chad was skimping on his sandwiches, too – he hasn't used much of the bread or peanut butter." He seemed to collect himself, and glanced at Sam. "He started a correspondence college degree, and was midway through an accounting course that he'd already paid for when we had to leave. He needs a computer – we were saving up for that." Sam pursed his lips, but left his face bland. It was a nice story, but he didn't quite believe it. They seemed a little too desperate to get that computer – in fact; Chad Manning had apparently been starving himself to save the money for it. If a computer was even what they were really after.

"Harry's a computer freak," he remarked mildly. "Why didn't your cousin just use his, after hours?"

Dave Manning looked truly miserable. "He asked – it was the day after he showed up here, uh – a little inebriated. I guess the word got around – Harry wouldn't let him use it."

Sam kept his face pleasant, but his eyes were narrowed, shrewdly. "Then what about the internet café?"

"Uh – it's kind of far, to go Idaho Falls every night," was all that Manning said, but it sounded – and was – a rather lame excuse. If Manning was telling the truth, thought Sam, they apparently did want to get their hands on a computer badly – and yet, they didn't want to go into town, to the internet café. Why not? Perhaps because it was too public for what they wanted to do? Were they into computer scams? He pondered that possibility, silently.

Doc Johnson had resumed his examination as they talked, and as he removed a thermometer from Chad Manning's ear, he said, "He has an infection of some type – he's running a high fever. Flu's been going around – they don't think it's H1N1, from what they've been saying over at the clinic, but it's a nasty one. Doesn't appear to be too contagious, but if your resistance is down, like his is, you're susceptible. Pneumonia's a concern with this strain, too." Chad Manning stirred; his eyelids fluttered and he mumbled something. They all looked at him, but his eyes closed again, and Doc Johnson looked up at Dave Manning. "I'm going to give you some Tamiflu for him – I've got some in my bag, here. If he's any worse in the morning, I think we should send him to the hospital."

Dave Manning looked downright alarmed at that statement, Sam thought to himself. Then Manning seemed to collect himself, and shoulders slumped, he reached for his wallet in his rear pocket. "Okay, Doc, thanks. How much do I owe you?"

Johnson waved a hand at him. "Keep your wallet in your pocket."

"I should give you money for the medicine, at least," insisted Manning.

At that moment, Chad stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. He seemed to be focusing in on Dave Manning's voice, and he said weakly, "Don?"

Manning was at his side in an instant, but Sam noticed he shot the rest of them a disconcerted look. "It's okay, Chad – it's Dave."

Doris spoke up with a puzzled expression. "Who's Don?"

Dave Manning addressed them without turning. "It's – uh- Dawn, with an 'aw,' – she's – uh - Chad's ex-wife – she left him a few months ago."

Sam eyed him dubiously – Dave had sounded a little flustered, like he was groping for an explanation, but Chad Manning was speaking again weakly, obviously delirious, and his face was scrunched up into a piteous expression. "I'm sorry, Dawn," he mumbled. ""m sorry."

Doris looked stricken, and her eyes were watering suspiciously. "Oh, that poor boy. I need to go make him some soup." She bustled out of the room, wiping an eye – Sam knew she hadn't thought much of Chad Manning, but she now had apparently been completely won over. Sam, however, still wasn't so sure. He eyed Dave Manning's back, speculatively, as he murmured to Chad, soothingly.

He waited until Doc Johnson was finished and ran him back down to his cabin, and then stopped in to make sure everything was settled. He found Doris in the kitchen, shaking her head sadly over a pot of bubbling chicken broth. "I called Harry," she said. "Chad wasn't getting lunch there – Harry thought he was bringing it from home – the poor boy's been eating next to nothing, and not a word of complaint from him. I told Dave – even he didn't know; he feels terrible. So do I – so does Harry. Why wouldn't Chad say anything?"

Sam pursed his lips and shook his head. "Don't know, Dorie, but it's not your fault. You okay, here?"

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm going to get this soup finished – he's still pretty out of it, but it will be there when he's ready. I told Dave to just come into the kitchen and get it when he needs it." Her shoulders sagged, and her lip trembled. "I have to admit, I was a bit stingy with them, and it's just not my nature – I just was so mistrustful after that last derelict I had in here…"

Sam stepped up to her, and put an arm around her shoulders. "There, there, Dorie, don't be so hard on yourself." He had half a mind to tell her he still didn't trust them, but he stopped himself. Maybe the two men were what they said they were, and he would worry her for nothing. He knew one thing though; he was going to check them out – thoroughly.

Doris packed him some pie, and he took it back with him to the office, and dug into it while he booted up his computer. "Blackberry," he said aloud, with appreciation. "Dang, Doris – no wonder Harry wants to come back to you." He thought a minute, chewing on a seed, and then pulled up the latest list of BOLOs.

It took him a half hour, but he found it – a bulletin issued out of Los Angeles, of all places, for an FBI agent and his brother. He hadn't seen it until he pulled up the list of cancelled bulletins. "Dark green Crown Victoria," he read. "No plate numbers. Don Eppes, description, 5' 11" - Caucasian, dark brown hair, brown eyes. Charles Eppes, 5'7" – Caucasian, dark brown hair, brown eyes. Don Eppes is an FBI agent – may be armed, but is not considered dangerous. Charlie Eppes is likely not armed. Possible kidnapping – may be in the company of others, who may be considered dangerous." He read on, noting they'd disappeared the night before Dave and Chad Manning had shown up in Heise. Links were available for pictures, and he clicked on the link for Don Eppes. The photo popped up, and the man he knew as Dave Manning stared back at him from the screen; clean shaven, without the beard. "Bingo," he breathed. "'Dawn' my ass – Eppes was lying. His cousin – brother, rather – _was _saying 'Don.'"

He sat back and stared at the picture on the screen, the pie forgotten. "The question is," he said softly to himself, "why are you lying to us, Don Eppes, and why is an FBI agent on the run?"

* * *

End Chapter 17


	18. Cover Blown

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 18: Cover Blown **

A weak cough roused Don from a dead sleep, and he grunted as he blinked awake in the darkness. "Charlie?" he whispered, and sat up from his bed on the floor to stare at the dark form in the bed next to his. There was no movement, and he could hear Charlie's regular breathing – it sounded a bit harsh, but it was regular, at least – so he started to lie back down, only to freeze when he heard a soft knock at the outside door.

He scrambled silently to his feet and slid his hand under the mattress at the end of the bed, retrieving his service weapon, and then quickly crossed the floor and sidled next to the door, just as a knock sounded again. "Who's there?"

"Sheriff Jarrett," came the voice, and Don relaxed physically, but tensed mentally. The sheriff had just left them an hour or two ago – what could he want that couldn't wait until daylight? Don suspected it wasn't good, but he bent and tucked the Glock under the blanket on the floor, and cautiously opened the door, just a crack.

It was Jarrett, and he was alone. "You got a minute?"

Don shot a meaningful glance toward Charlie. "It's the middle of the night."

"Yes, it is," said Jarrett, "and I'm finding it hard to sleep when I know my sister's alone in the house with two men who aren't who they say they are – Agent Eppes."

Don froze and stared at him, his heart sinking, then slowly nodded. "All right – kitchen?"

"How about my car?" said Jarrett. "I don't want to alarm Doris if we don't have to."

Don grabbed his sweatshirt and stepped outside. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, but the temperatures had dropped precipitously with the passing of the cold front, and he could see his breath rising in the starlight. He was barefoot, and the cold wet grass made him shiver a bit. He wondered what Jarrett was up to, but he didn't have a lot of choice other than to talk to him and find out – the man had their number.

They slipped into Jarrett's vehicle, the sheriff in the driver's seat; Don in the passenger seat. Too late, he realized that he should have brought his gun – what if Jarrett had been bought out by whoever was after them? He kept his face impassive, and glanced at the man beside him.

Jarrett's face was in shadow, but it was turned toward him. Don could make out the dim spots that represented eye sockets, and his imagination supplied the keen, speculative look that was surely on Jarrett's face. "You in trouble, agent?" Jarrett asked.

Don weighed his reply. "Yes – although not in the way you may think. We haven't broken any laws."

"Other than representing yourself under falsified IDs, and purchasing a stolen vehicle."

Don feigned ignorance. "Stolen? Really?" He wasn't sure, but he thought he could see Jarrett grin in the darkness.

"Well, if you haven't broken any laws, that's good to know. Why are you and your brother on the run, then?"

Don hesitated, reluctant to disclose their situation, but there was no way around it – Jarrett wouldn't let this go unless he had at least some of the story. "Charlie and I were pursuing an investigation in L.A."

Jarrett interrupted him. "Your brother's an agent, also?"

"No," said Don slowly. He offered an explanation, although he had the sense that Jarrett already knew the answer, and was testing him. "He's head of the math department at Cal Sci. He consults with us on cases sometimes. I asked him for help on this one." He stopped, waiting – the usual response from law enforcement with that revelation was skepticism, but Jarrett had no further comment, so he continued. "I started the investigation on my own – it looked like a relatively straightforward case of fraud, involving electronic fund transfers – small amounts, but several of them. I came home one night to find that someone had been in my apartment, and installed listening devices. For reasons I won't disclose, I wasn't sure whom I could trust – including my own superiors. I asked my brother for help – he began to run some search algorithms on his computer, and made a few phone calls to businesses that had been hit by the transfers – similar to what I had been doing. The next night, we were both attacked in Charlie's office. We fought the men off, but we felt it was in our best interests to leave town until we could figure out what was going on, and who was involved. We had to leave our computers behind – they have GPS trackers in them that could be traced. We got this far, and ran out of cash. We've been trying to save up enough money to get another computer so we can figure out who's behind this. Once we know that, we'll know who we can go to with the information – who we can trust." He looked directly at Jarrett as he uttered the last words, laying them out like a challenge.

Jarrett simply leaned back in his seat, looked out the windshield, and chuckled, a short dry laugh without much humor in it. "I'm not a stranger to computers – I was a big city detective until I came back here last year. I remember a day, though, when the key piece of equipment that you needed for police work was a gun – now everyone's packin' a computer." He glanced sideways. "You do have a gun on you." It was a question, uttered as a statement.

Don nodded. "Not on me at this moment, but I do have my service weapon. I also have my real set of ID with me, if you want to see it." Silence fell for a moment, then he said, "Charlie and I have no reason to think that anyone, including our own family, knows where we are. We think we're safe here – and therefore not a danger to anyone else, either. We just want to get our hands on a computer, finish up our analysis, and be gone."

Jarrett lifted his head, and Don could almost see him pursing his lips. "Well, we have a couple of computers at the station, but it would raise more questions than you'd probably want if your brother showed up there to work – once he's well enough to do that. Doris has one, but it's an antique, and probably wouldn't have the memory or speed that your brother would need. I might be able to help you out with one, though."

Don stared at him. "You'd do that?"

Jarrett seemed to study him in the darkness. "I spent some time looking up your history in law enforcement. I also checked out your brother – he seems to be quite the star in the academic world. I can't imagine that either of you would risk your well-earned reputations or your careers for any kind of illegal activity. Plus, whatever you're involved in, I'd prefer that you get it done, and get the hell out of here. Get back in with your brother, and I'll see what I can do."

Don was silent for a moment. "How did you know?"

"That you weren't who you say you are? I didn't, really. There were just a bunch of small things. You seemed pretty interested in gettin' your hands on a computer – in fact, your brother was apparently desperate enough to starve himself to get one – but you didn't seem to want to use the ones at the Internet café in town, so I figured whatever you were doing, you wanted privacy. You both seemed to be well brought up, too educated to be working as laborers at a camp. Most of all, though, it was watching you tonight – how concerned you were about him. You acted a little too close, a little too protective for a cousin – not to say that you couldn't be very close to a cousin, it was just unusual; that's all. All of it made me go poking around, and I when I found the BOLO, it had a link for your pictures. When I saw that he was your brother – your little brother to boot, the way you acted made more sense. I'm a mite protective of Dorie, myself."

Don grimaced, and made a mental note to watch his expressions and body language in the future. "It's very important that you don't say anything to anyone – even in law enforcement," he said. "We aren't sure how high up this goes, or who can be trusted."

Jarrett nodded laconically. "I think I got that. We don't even need to tell Doris. We'll talk tomorrow. G'night, agent."

* * *

Early morning light was filtering into the room when another knock sounded, this time on the inner door that led to the hallway. Don rose stiffly from the mat on the floor, wondering how Charlie had tolerated it night after night. He'd said he preferred it to the bed, but Don wondered now if he hadn't been lying – there didn't seem to be enough padding. Although, he thought morosely, the padding had a lot less weight to support, in Charlie's case.

With a quick glance at his brother, he stepped over and opened the door, to reveal an anxious-looking Doris in the hallway. She waved a thermometer at him. "How's he doing? Doc said we should take his temp in the morning – he left me the thermometer. He's going to call to check on him in a bit, and I wanted to have a reading for him."

Don nodded and stepped back. He felt a bit underdressed in his sweatpants, T-shirt and bare feet, but Doris was all business, and she didn't seem to notice. She flicked on the overhead light, and Charlie winced and stirred weakly as she padded toward the bed.

He looked bad, Don decided; his face was pale and covered with stubble, and the scratch on his cheek was red and angry by comparison. His eyes were open, but they were slits against the light, and Don couldn't see if Charlie was focusing on them or not. He hoped his brother had enough of his faculties present to prevent him from calling him by his real name again.

"There, there," Doris soothed, and reached a hand out and ran it gently over Charlie's brow. "Feels pretty warm. I'm gonna take your temperature, Chad – just hold still."

Charlie blinked a little, then gave a hint of a nod, mercifully remaining silent. His eyes had opened a little more, and Don could see they looked unnaturally bright, glittering with fever. Doris prattled on, as she inserted the thermometer in his ear. "What on earth were you thinkin' – not eatin' like that?" She shot Don a glance. "Both of you. I have oatmeal this morning – with fresh blueberries." She returned her gaze to Charlie, as she pulled out the thermometer. "Should be easy on your stomach." She frowned slightly as she read the digital display, and looked uneasily at Don. "It's pretty high – 103.1. We'll have to see what Doc says. He might want to come back and look at him." She straightened, and bustled toward the door, handling Don two ibuprofen tablets as she went. "Give him those, Dave; it will help with the fever. Come out to the kitchen when you and Chad are ready to eat – I'll dish it up and you can bring it back here."

"Thanks, Doris," Don said quietly, and she flashed him a smile on the way out that made him realize suddenly how pretty she must have been when she was younger. He waited until she shut the door, and then filled a glass with water from a pitcher on the table and pulled a chair over to Charlie's side.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly. "How're you doing?"

Charlie blinked at him, and a full two seconds passed before he answered, "Been better." The words came out slowly, slurred.

"Why didn't you wait for me, if you were feeling that bad?" Don chided him. Even though his tone was stern, he felt a partly painful, partly warm sensation in his heart. To think what Charlie had been willing to go through, for him… It brought a lump to his throat, and he tried to speak through it. "And Doris is right, what on earth were you thinking? You should have told me you weren't getting lunch."

"Sssorry." The word came out heavy on the 's', and drifted off into nothingness. It wasn't much of a speech, but still Charlie took a deep breath after he said it, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort, then he coughed. It sounded tight, dry, and Don frowned. A trip to the hospital had the potential of blowing their cover, and he really hoped to avoid it. Charlie, however, looked awful.

He helped prop him up enough so that he could take his pills and swallow some water, and then eased him back down. Charlie closed his eyes. "So what do you think – can you eat some breakfast? Charlie?" There was no response – Charlie was already out.

* * *

Sam Jarrett walked slowly, purposefully, into Harry Sackett's office at nine that morning, his boots clumping on the wooden floor. "Mornin', Harry."

Harry had looked up, a bit wide-eyed, at Sam's approach. He'd made Harry nervous, Sam knew, ever since Harry and Doris had separated. Maybe it had something to do with the expression in his eyes – the look that said he'd like to strangle him, Sam thought, and he tried to look as friendly as he could. Really, he hadn't minded Harry – he'd always thought that he and Doris were good together, and had been as stunned by the breakup as Doris had been – and a hell of a lot angrier. If Doris wanted him back, however, Sam was going to make sure that she got him.

"Mornin', Sam," said Harry, fidgeting nervously from behind his computer screen. "Doris called me last night, about Chad Manning. I had no idea the guy was so sick, or I would have driven him home myself. You hear how he's doin'?"

"Pretty sick, from what Doc Johnson says." Sam kept his words light, delivering them in his usual slow drawl. "He's thinkin' maybe he needs to go to the hospital. Got run down, with you workin' him like a dog, and not feedin' him at all."

Harry's eyes widened. "I didn't know, Sam, I swear. Matt brought his lunch 'til he took up with that Gloria – I thought Chad was, too."

"Hmph," snorted Sam. "Dorie's pretty upset about it – she took a shine to the young man. I'd say she's a little miffed at you."

"She is?" asked Harry worriedly. His shoulders slumped a little, and he looked down, then up at Sam. "I been tryin' to make things right with her," he admitted, in a low voice. "I screwed up, bad, Sam. I don't know what I was thinkin' - leavin' her. I can tell you for certain, the grass definitely ain't greener."

Sam pursed his lips. "Well, I can think of how you might get on her good side again." His eyes flickered to the computer in front of Harry. "You just got a new computer, right? What'd you do with the old one?"

"I still got it."

"It was pretty good one, right?"

"Yeah," admitted Harry. "It was the latest just six months ago. Why? Does Doris want it?"

"Not for herself," said Sam blandly. "It seems that Chad, here, has been pinchin' pennies, tryin' to save up for a computer. I think Dorie would think it right nice if you let him use your old one, after hours – maybe even borrow it for a while."

Harry's face brightened. "Yeah – he did ask about usin' this one a while back. Do you think she'd like that? Hell, that's an easy one. Sure, he can use it."

"If he manages to stay out of the hospital and doesn't have any complications, Doc said he'd be able to do some desk work startin' Monday. Maybe you have somethin' like that for him. He won't be up for hard labor for a week."

Harry thought for a minute. "I _have_ been trying to convert all my paper files to electronic – it's a lot of typin.' He could do that for me – heck, I could bring the computer and the files over, and he could do it from there. It'd save them havin' to get him over here in the mornin'."

Sam nodded, with a wide smile. "I think that'd be real kind of you, Harry. I'm sure Dorie would appreciate it too."

Harry jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands, a pathetically grateful expression on his face. "I'll get the stuff together. Thanks, Sam!"

Sam Jarrett nodded amiably, as he headed for the door. "Don't mention it, Harry. Don't mention it." He grinned, all the way to his car.

* * *

Charlie could feel the soothing presence by his side. He felt horrible; his head hurt so badly that he didn't even mind missing classes today. He could smell his mother's chicken soup, and he wondered vaguely when Donnie was getting home from school. A wayward tendril of hair tickled his brow, and he scrunched his face, trying to dislodge it, still not quite awake enough to open his eyes. A hand touched him gently, moving the lock of hair aside, and with an effort, his eyes fluttered open. "Mom?"

As soon as he said the word, he knew something was wrong, and he landed back into the present with a mental thump, in time to see Don jerk his hand away, looking a bit embarrassed. "Sorry – didn't mean to wake you," he said. "Your face kept twitching – it looked like your hair was tickling you." He smiled, a little ruefully. "I think you were dreaming. How are you feeling?"

Charlie blinked a couple of times, trying to assess where he was. The memory of home, of his mother, still seemed almost more real than the room around him. As recollection came back, his heart fell. Their current predicament, the horrible bike ride home in the rain, the knowledge that he was missing work at Harry's today – and that meant that much less pay – and the fact that maybe he'd even jeopardized his job by this breakdown… He looked up at Don, miserably, and struggled to sit up. "A little better – I think – I can probably – go back to work tomorrow…" He managed to sit up against the pillows, with Don's help, before his breath failed him. The room was spinning, and he had broken out into a cold sweat.

Don was snorting in derision at his last statement, as he settled back into the chair at his bedside. "You _are _dreaming. There's no way you're leaving this room – except to use the bathroom – for a few days." He peered at him closely. "You okay?"

Charlie shivered a little as a chill ran through him, and pulled the blankets up higher on his chest. He took a deep breath. "Think so."

"Anyway," said Don, "there'll be no need for you to go back to Harry's for a while." He paused, his face turning serious, and said quietly, "Jarrett knows."

"Jarrett?" Charlie's face twisted in confusion. His head was really fuddled – he knew he should know the name…

Don's eyes narrowed and he examined him more closely. "Sheriff Jarrett – Doris' brother?"

"Oh – yeah," Charlie shook his head slightly to clear it, and immediately regretted the movement. His head was killing him, and his entire body ached. It was a bit understandable that the name didn't register; he had been really out of it both times the man had been present. He frowned, as he recollected his brother's words. "Knows what?"

"Us," said Don, gesturing. "He got suspicious last night, got on his computer, and started going through BOLOs. He's figured out who we are."

Charlie's eyes widened. "Shit," he whispered. He looked at Don. "What do we do now? Oh, God, I'm sorry – I really messed this up -,"

Don waved at him, seemingly unperturbed; in fact, to Charlie's utter confusion, he even smiled. "Relax. Actually, things worked out for the better. I talked to Jarrett privately – he's keeping a lid on our identities. Doris doesn't even know. Jarrett went and talked to Harry, and got him to lend you his old computer for the week. You'll have to input some paperwork that Harry wants to store electronically, but he's going to bring it all over here. You can do it from the room – and you should get some time each day to start digging into the case. In the meantime, you can take it easy."

A slow smile spread on Charlie's face, a little strained because of his splitting headache, but it was a smile. "I can start now -," he broke off for a moment, and looked at the window, trying to assess the time of day. "When is now, anyway?"

Don held up a hand. "Not so fast. It's Saturday, at around six p.m. – in fact, Doris is making chicken and dumplings for dinner, and I think it's almost ready. There's no way you're doing anything but resting for a couple of days – resting and eating. The doctor was ready to put you in the hospital this morning; you were so out of it – your fever topped out at nearly 104. It started to come down at around two – the last time Doris took it, it was around 102." He scowled in mock sternness. "And if you ever pull anything like that starvation stunt again, I'll tan your hide myself."

Charlie tried, and failed, to stifle a grin. "You're sounding more like the old man every day." He shook his head, more gently this time. "I don't even remember getting my temperature taken."

"Oh, one more thing," Don added. "As far as Doris is concerned, you are recently divorced from a woman name Dawn, and you're heartbroken."

"Huh?"

"Just go with it, Chuck."

Don grinned at him, and in spite of an aching body and a pounding head, Charlie smiled back. For the first time in days, he was beginning to feel as though everything might work out, after all.

* * *

End Chapter 18


	19. Cloak and Dagger

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 19: ****Cloak and Dagger**

Early Monday morning, Colby Granger stepped quietly into the garage, and regarded the tousled dark head bent over the computer screen. "Hey, Amita. How's it going?"

Amita looked up distractedly, and ran a hand through her hair with a hint of frustration. "Okay, I guess. This is tougher than I thought it would be – it's going to take a few days, maybe a week."

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"I'm setting up a program to run underneath on Charlie's computer, while he's working – at least, once he gets his hands on a computer. Of course, we'll be using it also. It will detect any hits coming in; specifically any queries as to a computer's IP address. It will then feed out some random IP addresses in quick succession. They'll have to look them up – I'm guessing they have some kind of program that does it for them automatically, but if they don't, it will take them even longer. By the time they look up the owner of an address, another one will spit out at them. They won't know which ones, if any, are valid – and of course, none of them will be."

Colby frowned. "Do you have a week? When did Charlie think he could get his hands on a computer?"

"Not for a few weeks, from the sound of it," she sighed. "I should be able to send this to him to install long before he can start; although I'm pretty anxious to get started on this end, as well!"

Colby's expression was sympathetic – and frustrated. "I know what you mean," he grumbled. "Have you heard from him?"

"No," she said wistfully. "He isn't due to call until later this week, and he asked me not to call him. I guess no news is good news."

Colby rubbed his head. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He had a hinky feeling, though, that he was trying hard to squelch. It had driven him out to the Craftsman before work that morning to seek Amita out, and check on her progress. Her words were reassuring, but somehow, he didn't feel any better.

* * *

Audrey Montague patted her coiffed auburn hair as she clicked across the parking garage floor in Italian heels, her hips swishing with seductive confidence in her slim skirt. Across the floor, she could see another figure moving, and her eyes narrowed as she picked up Robin Brooks, also approaching the elevators that would take them to their offices. Audrey tensed a bit; she couldn't help but wonder if Don Eppes had clued Brooks in on his investigation before he'd disappeared. By all accounts, however, it seemed that Robin Brooks was as oblivious as everyone else as to where he'd gone. Too bad, Audrey thought to herself, if her husband and Everett thought that Robin Brooks knew of the Eppes brothers' whereabouts, she was sure that Everett could arrange for another disappearance – and the thought of what they might do to get her to talk made a little thrill of excitement shoot through Audrey. Of course, anything illicit gave her a thrill, which was exactly the attraction of an affair with Everett; as was the fact that they were conducting it right under Jim's nose.

As it was, however, there was no sign that Robin Brooks knew anything; nor Dr. Ramanujan, nor Alan Eppes. If there were, her husband or Tuttle would have made a move, long before now. Both Jim and Everett seemed confident that their fund transfer scheme was still under wraps, and that no one had connected what the Eppes brothers had been working on to their disappearance. Now, if only they could find Don and Charlie Eppes…

She smiled sympathetically at Robin as she approached. Everyone in the office knew that the Eppes brothers had disappeared and that foul play was suspected, so it was logical that she ask, "Morning, Robin – any word? Jim won't say anything – he's so tightlipped when it comes to cases."

Robin's expression was neutral, reserved, but she allowed a bit of chagrin to creep into her expression. "No, nothing," she sighed. "Thanks for asking, Audrey."

The elevator doors opened, and Audrey gestured for Robin to enter, shaking her head. "Oh, that's too bad," she murmured, and they stepped onto the elevator and faced forward as the doors closed, and rode in silence to their respective floors. Audrey got off first; unaware that Robin Brooks' gaze was boring into her back, her eyes narrowed and filled with mistrust.

* * *

J. Everett Tuttle got the call a little after 2:00 on Monday afternoon. He wasted no time in getting to Ralph Nardek's office, with his man Derek Mace in tow. Nardek waved them over as soon as they entered, and they stood looking over his shoulder at his computer screen. "I'm getting pings," he said. "Finally. Three so far – it's enough that I have a search going for that IP address. I haven't gotten more than one from the same address since the Eppes brothers disappeared." He pointed, as a line of code flashed across the screen. "There's another one."

He swung his chair over to another computer and tapped his fingers impatiently as he stared at the screen, muttering "Come on, come on," under his breath.

"Come on what?" asked Mace.

Nardek pushed his glasses up on his nose, shot Mace a supercilious glare, and jabbed a finger at the second monitor. "That's my search program. I put an IP address in, and it looks for an owner, then searches out the owner's address." Information flashed on the screen, and he straightened. "There it is – the IP is a less than a year old; it's giving me a man named Harry Sackett, in Heise, Idaho, but I'd bet my life that one of the Eppes men is on his computer – my guess is the professor." He hit print, and the name and address came scrolling off a printer next to the computer.

He handed it to Tuttle, who glanced at it, then turned to Mace. "I want your men up there, in a hurry. Be discreet – make sure they find out exactly where the Eppes men are before they make their move, and they should plan to take them alive. I need to know exactly how much they found out, and who else might know." He held Mace's gaze, sternly, as he held out the paper. "Put some good men on it, this time."

Mace nodded, grabbed the paper, and strode for the door. "You got it," he boomed.

Tuttle turned back to the first computer monitor, and smiled a bit as another 'ping' showed on the screen. "That's right, Charlie Eppes," he murmured. "You just keep typing away."

* * *

The huge 4th of July weekend was only five days away; already both Doris and Harry's campgrounds were full, and Doris was frantic. Dave had brought the new fire grills back from town, all right, but then Chad had scared the life out of all of them, and the damn things never were installed. They would be desperately needed for the kickoff to the big weekend, Friday night's fish fry; last year, there had not been enough grills, or enough cooks, to handle the demand. It had been the first year that Doris tried to pull off the fish fry by herself – Harry had always handled those details in the past – and she had not been prepared. Oh, the campers were happy enough; they were on vacation, after all, and half of them were this close to drunk – but there had been a long wait for food, and they had run out entirely too early. She had learned her lesson, though, and this year had intended to install some extra-large fire pits down in the community area near the river. She had also lined up several willing hands to help with the cooking. They all had some sort of experience, and held the proper food prep cards, which Sam insisted on checking, even at her place (snot-nosed little brothers…did they ever grow up?) and, in the current economy, were thrilled for even a few days' work.

Because the campground was full, there was more work for Dave. More firewood to be chopped; bathrooms had to be cleaned more often; and all the little things that enthusiastic campers broke for them every day – like when the toddler flushed her own diaper down a toilet, and clogged up everything – had to be fixed immediately, if not sooner. The grass needed watered early every morning, late every evening, and mowed every two days. Some serious scythe and weed whacker use was necessary around the entire perimeter of the camp, to keep the forest and the blackberry bushes at bay.

Harry had the same situation down at his place, which was also full. In fact, he had it worse. His camp was a little larger – he and Doris used to run it together. They had owned Snake River Lodge as well, but had treated it almost like an overflow campground. They had both lived and worked at the Hideaway, until Harry took up with that bimbo. Doris had moved to the Lodge several months before they actually got divorced; Harry had continued to oversee things like the annual fish fry. A year ago last January, Doris had gone into Heise on an errand, and run smack dab into the slut, and several of her young, perky, slut friends, at the diner; they had laughed at her, she was sure of it. Harry had claimed that someone in the group had just told a joke, but she wasn't born yesterday (like the tramp apparently was); she knew the score. Shortly thereafter, she filed for divorce. She had ended up with Snake River Lodge in the settlement.

She'd been making it work, too; but now, both she and Harry were in trouble. He had never replaced Sally in the front office – Matt and Chad had been helping check the campers in and out. Now Matt was out with a broken ankle, and Chad lay wheezing in her back bedroom. Dave had managed a few hours of work on Sunday, and a few more on Monday, but Doris felt bad asking him to do it – he was starting to look as haggard as his cousin.

Finally, on Monday night, she called some of the folks who were helping with the fish fry, and offered them a few more days of work. She ended up with a 40-year-old single mother of six, who cooked in the elementary school cafeteria during the school year. She claimed to be handy with a hammer; hopefully, Dave could delegate some of the tasks her way, and get those damn grates installed Tuesday. Then she called Harry – who was out in the campground chopping wood at near nine o'clock. The poor man hadn't done so much physical labor in all the years of their marriage, and it was relatively easy to talk him into sharing the expense of hiring a professional handyman for a few weeks, as well as sharing his services. Arnie Davis had been the maintenance man at the Hideaway a few years back, before he went out on his own; it would be a good fit, and it was just until Matt and Chad got back on their feet. By then, the 4th of July weekend would be over, and they could coast until Labor Day.

Doris hung up the phone and sighed. She could hear Chad hacking up a lung, even though the connecting door between the main house and the Manning's room was shut. She was exhausted, and wanted to take a long bath and then fall into bed…but she paid her debts, and she owed somebody another pot of chicken soup.

* * *

Don was running himself ragged.

He wasn't comfortable leaving Charlie for very long, yet he knew how badly Doris needed him to do his work. Thank God for the temporary help she had hired. The woman, Louisa, was a hard-working dynamo, and a quick learner. With six kids to feed and clothe, Don guessed she was thrilled to make an extra few hundred. He was able to install most of the fire grills Tuesday morning; Arnie, the handyman who had worked for Harry during the morning hours, would finish up the last two that afternoon, while Don was chopping firewood and Louisa was mowing some grass.

He managed to race back to the house twice during the morning to check on Charlie – both times he was sleeping, Harry's laptop on the cot beside him, humming away. At lunchtime, he woke Charlie up, and the two of them joined Doris in the kitchen. Don and Doris laid into fried chicken, baked beans and potato salad, while a shyly quiet and still-flushed Charlie did his best to down most of a bowl of homemade chicken soup, along with his medication. He had to promise Doris he would come back for an afternoon snack before she let the two men return to their room.

Charlie picked up the laptop from the bed, and shuffled over to the small table. "My algorithm seems to have flagged some common denominators," he sniffed. "I'm just going to Google® a few things…" He sighed. "This would be easier with a phone."

"We have phones," Don pointed out. He looked out the window and saw that Louisa was already back at work.

Charlie glanced up at him and followed his gaze. He sniffed again, following that with a small cough. "You should go back to work," he said. "I'm okay, here. I'll probably only last about an hour before I fall asleep again – if I'm lucky."

Don smiled – at least, Charlie thought it was a smile. Sometimes it was hard to tell, what with Don's new facial hair distorting the image. "Good," he declared. He glanced at his duffle bag in the corner. "You want my cell?" He took half a step as he asked, then paused, reconsidering. "No, that's probably not a good idea. Even prepaid cells have GPS chips; if you call someone with caller ID, we could be screwed."

Charlie nodded. "That's what I was thinking; I don't want our numbers floating around out there any more than you do." He yawned. "I'll just use the 'net to trace the ownership of this…" – he leaned forward and peered at the screen – "…_Illusion Corporation_." Don's eyebrows approached his hairline, and Charlie continued. "_Illusion_ seems to own several of the small businesses that were hit. At this point, I don't know what that means. The corporation could be a target for someone else."

Don started for the door. "Don't work on it too long," he warned. "And don't forget to get some more soup, later. Doris must've been up all night making that."

"Yes, _Mom_," Charlie answered wearily.

Don stopped in the doorway and silenced him with a glare. "I mean it, Charlie. I never should have gotten you involved in this in the first place, and I made it worse when I let you almost starve yourself to death right in front of me. If I can't take you home healthy to Amita and Dad, none of this matters."

Charlie looked appropriately chastised. "It wasn't your fault, Donny; _none_ of it has been your fault!" Don did not look convinced – what Charlie could see of his face was stony – so Charlie laid it all out on the line. "If you had told me, when you asked for my help, that all of this would happen…I still would not have hesitated, Don, don't you know that? As long as I'm around, you'll never have to face something like this alone."

Don shook his head and regarded Charlie fondly for a moment before he responded. When he finally did, his voice was gruff. "Damn sure better keep you around, then."

* * *

End, Chapter 19


	20. Clandestine Activity

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 20: Clandestine Activity**

Robin smiled as Alan placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the dining room table, and waited for him to take his seat before she started speaking. "Did Larry come over for dinner tonight?" she asked cautiously. The house and garage might be clear of listening devices, but she still wanted to guard her conversation if Larry might wander through the dining room at any moment.

Amita shook her head, swirling a tea bag in her mug of hot water. "Not tonight; there's a faculty meeting for instructors who will be teaching during the summer session." She read Robin's mind. "It's safe to talk."

Robin sighed in relief, and some of the tension left her shoulders. "Audrey Montague is asking questions," she reported tersely. "She's made it a point of finding me, and asking about Don and Charlie, at least once a day."

Alan inserted the voice of reason. "Larry probably asks at least that often -- and someone from the team calls every day to check on me. People are concerned."

"_Your friends_ are concerned," Robin corrected. "I'd only met Audrey Montague once before she transferred to the L.A. office almost a year ago. Even though she's here now, we specialize in completely different areas of law; we've never worked together --often entire weeks pass without my seeing her. We're not exactly close. She's going out of her way to talk to me, now."

"Maybe she just feels a connection, because her husband is...sort-of Don's boss," Amita suggested.

"I don't think that's it," Robin insisted. "James Montague became the FBI's West Coast Director a little over a year ago. For a few months, while they had their house on the market, he was based in Las Vegas -- he was SAC of the Vegas Bureau office for several years. Ever since Audrey relocated here with James, he's been Don's boss -- and she's never seemed to feel any special connection before. When Don was stabbed, for example, she never asked how he was doing."

Alan had been nibbling on a slice of apple pie, but now he laid his fork down on the table and looked worriedly at Robin. The house was a safe zone, but he still whispered. "Are you suggesting that Montague is dirty?"

The room was silent for a moment. "I don't know," Robin finally admitted. "At this point all I know is that Don had to be afraid of someone pretty high up on the food chain."

Alan shuddered, and looked at Amita. "How's the cloaking program coming?" he asked.

Amita brightened a little. "Better than I anticipated," she reported. "I think I could have it ready for Colby to take for a test run in the morning."

Robin frowned. "A test run?"

Amita nodded. "Phil..." -- she blushed -- "Assistant Director Wright wants Colby to send an e-mail to David from a dummy account; something threatening enough that the e-mail itself qualifies as a crime. David will send it on to IT, and try for an IP address. If my program works, they'll get plenty; but never the one they need."

Alan's frown intensified, and he gave up entirely on the pie, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Not to discredit your abilities, dear, but what if it doesn't work? Could the criminal e-mail be traced back to Colby?" He sighed, and lifted one hand to rub the side of his face. "God knows I want my sons home – but not at the expense of losing yet another."

Alan had never spoken so openly about his fondness for Colby before; both women found it touching. They knew that just as he regarded Colby as another one of his sons, he regarded the two of them as the daughters he and Margaret had never had, and it took a moment for Amita to find her voice again. "Phil already has a contingency plan for that possibility," she assured him. "He's written, signed and notarized an official document stating that Colby is acting on a direct order. He gave it to me – I put it in the under-floor safe in the garage. Charlie keeps a lot of sensitive material there." She shivered, a little. "Every time he asks me to get him something out of the safe, and I see the sheer volume of stuff that could conceivably get him killed, it keeps me awake at night."

"_Ignorance is bliss_," Alan muttered softly. "I've felt that way about both of my sons for years."

A wry grin twisted Robin's lips as she turned toward Amita again. "When the program is ready," she said, "can you put a copy on my laptop?"

Amita looked surprised. "Of course; but why?"

Robin picked up her rapidly cooking mug of coffee. "I may have some discreet research of my own I'd like to do."

* * *

Harry swore as he shoved the keys to the tool shed into Arnie's hand. "Dammit! I put the _No Vacancy_ sign up on the road myself this morning – who the hell keeps honking a car horn up at the office?"

Arnie tipped back the baseball cap on his balding head and scratched his forehead laconically. "Don't rightly know," he drawled, "but I doubt they want a camping spot."

Harry had taken half a step toward the office, but now he stopped and turned around. "Why do you say that?"

Arnie pulled his cap back down and shrugged. "They was sitting up there when I got here from the Lodge campground; three of 'em, in a dark sedan. One was poking around in the trunk when I walked past, and there ain't no tent or nuthin' in there." He snorted in derision. "City slickers is my bet; didn't see the guy still in the car honking the horn, but the other two's wearing brand new jeans and shiny new 800 dollar boots – don't look none too comfortable! You want I should take a look at that clogged sink in the fish-guttin' lean-to before I start mowin'?"

Harry sighed as the horn honked again. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, turning toward the sound. "Sink first, Arnie," he called back over his shoulder as he broke into a slow jog. If he survived this week it would be a miracle.

He was wiping his hands on his jeans as he rounded the corner of the main house. Arnie had reported accurately; the driver of a dark sedan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; another man leaned against the rear of the vehicle, near the open truck, guzzling a bottle of water. A third man was twisting the knob on the door that led to the office, peering through the small window near the top of the door.

Neither of the men outside the vehicle was convincing in their fresh-bought cowboy outfits, and he suppressed a snort of disgust. "I'm full-up through the holiday," he announced loudly, slowing to a walk. "Should be a sign up on the highway."

The man at the door let go of the knob and quickly turned around. "Your office is locked," he said, stating the obvious. "We just wanted to use the phone; local call."

Harry rolled his eyes as he took his keys out of his pocket and stepped up onto the porch. "That's 'cuz I'm _full up_," he repeated, a little testily. "Short-handed, too." He shoved past the stranger, tossing an impatient glance in his direction. "Ain't y'all got cells?" Five minutes with Arnie had completely destroyed his usually decent grammar, and he shook his head a little in wonder as the door swung open.

The stranger was right on his heels, and Harry heard at least one more pair of feet on the porch behind him. "Forgot to charge mine," the man said. "Stan never had one, and Jerry left his at the hotel in Boise."

Harry gestured toward the desk in the main office; his personal office lay just beyond, in a former bedroom. "You guys are in all kinds of shit," he drawled. "Make it fast; I gotta lock back up and get to work."

The man who had been leaning against the car strolled to the desk and picked up the phone. He was a big man, with a clean-shaven head, and a look in his eyes that Harry didn't care for too much. The one who had been talking followed Harry to the seating area in the corner. "Guess a campground doesn't need computers," he mused, sitting down after Harry did. "I don't know if I've ever seen a business office without a computer."

_Computer_, as always, was the magic word, and Harry brightened considerably. "This is just the registration lobby," he informed the stranger. "I enter all the records and do my business back there in my office, on my laptop."

His companion tried to see through the closed door. "Laptop?" he repeated.

Harry jumped out of the chair. "You want to see it while your friend is on the phone? It's a real beauty – a Precision M6400 Covet; I've only had her a little over a week."

The stranger had been following Harry toward his office, but he stopped, suddenly. "What? Did you say 'a week'?"

"That's right," answered Harry proudly, opening the door to his office. "Look at that black beauty; she was completely worth the wait."

His new friend seemed momentarily speechless – which was only appropriate, in Harry's opinion. Finally, the man found his tongue again, with a glance at the hairless man, who stood there with a slight scowl on his face. "It's, ah, beautiful," he said. "Is this the only computer you have?"

Harry answered. "Yep. Used to have a Latitude XT2, but it's not here anymore." It was the truth. He had no way of knowing, or caring, that the man assumed he had traded it on the new machine.

Tuttle's employee, Jackie Carotta, didn't quite know where to go; Nardek had told them that the IP address was a few months old, not a week. He was saved when his boss, Derek Mace, ran a hand over his bald scalp, and asked, "Could we…take a look around the campground before we leave? We were talking about maybe coming back this way next summer." Jackie knew that Mace didn't really expect to find one of the Eppes sitting beside a fire grill with a computer on his lap, searching the 'net – for one thing, the IP address Nardek traced belonged to Harry. Either he had sold his old computer privately, or the place where he had traded it had already sold it again. A tour of the campground would serve two purposes. He could report to Tuttle that he had searched the premises for the Eppes, and during his additional time with Harry, he could try to find out where the hell that other computer had gone.

Harry's smile grew wider. The only thing he was almost as proud of as his computer, was his campground. "Sure thing!" he crowed. "You buy any fishin' gear to go with that get-up?"

* * *

Colby sent the e-mail a little after 10:00 Wednesday morning. David, as acting SAC, was upstairs in Wright's office attending the weekly Team Leader meeting. When he came back to the bullpen, Wright was with him; he stayed close to Sinclair's desk, but engaged Nikki in a conversation, reminding her that she was due for additional Quantico training, soon. He was recommending an upcoming seminar in the behavioral science unit, about school violence, when David emitted a low whistle and stood behind his desk. "Did anybody else get one of these?"

Granger stood and walked toward David's desk. "What?" he asked curiously.

At the same time, A.D. Wright turned away from Nikki and looked at David, lifting an eyebrow. "Agent Sinclair?"

David glanced at him. "It's an e-mail that says there's a bomb in Parker Center, LAPD headquarters. Demands the release of all prisoners in county jail before five o'clock today, or the bomb detonates." He looked down at his monitor. "Don't recognize the e-mail address, but someone had to know something about our e-mail system, to get this to me."

By now, Liz, Nikki and Colby were all peering over David's shoulder, looking at the screen. Wright snapped into action. "Get IT services on this right away; have the IP address traced. Whether it's a valid threat or not, the e-mail itself is a federal violation."

David picked up his keys. "We'd better get down to Parker," he said.

Wright stopped him. "I'll handle it. Let me call the Chief of Police; they can have their entire squad of bomb dogs combing Parker Center before you could even get there." David looked a little surprised, and Wright continued authoritatively. "Of course I will offer assistance, but the bomb itself – if there is one – is an ATF matter; too many departments running around Parker Center would raise a red flag with the media. Sinclair, you and Warner interview that witness in the dock homicide again; he's not telling you something."

David's mouth fell open and he looked almost stupidly at Liz, who looked a little stunned herself. Colby took advantage of their shock to stride the two steps it took him to reach Assistant Director White and poke an index finger in the center of his tie. "Are you friggin' _crazy_, old man? You expect us to just hand this over to IT and LAPD and walk away? I don't know how the hell you ever found a toy in a cereal box, let alone became Assistant Director of the FBI!"

Betantcourt was the first to react, and also the closest to Colby and A.D. Wright. "Granger," she said, not unkindly, "come on…" She reached out to touch his arm, and Colby pivoted and jerked away from her; they never made contact with each other, but Nikki stumbled back a step, stopped by David's solid body.

He waited until she was steady on her feet, and then looked at the Assistant Director. "Sir, Colby's been under a lot of stress, since Don disappeared; we all have." He glared meaningfully at Colby's back. "I'm sure Agent Granger would like to publicly apologize."

"The hell you say," muttered Colby, starting to walk back toward his desk. By now, other agents in the bullpen were gawking at the spectacle. "Get the fuck back to work!" Colby yelled at them. "Quick, before this chickenshit hands your cases to other agencies and starts a bridge club!"

Wright had been truly shocked speechless by Colby's rant, but now he found his voice – and had little difficulty appearing to restrain himself. He looked at David. "Sinclair and Warner – see to that witness." He turned his gaze to Nikki. "Betancourt, stay on top of the tech from IT; I want to know the second he finds that IP address." He looked at Colby, who was now sitting at his desk, a disinterested expression on his face. Wright took one step in his direction. "Granger. My office. Now. You can cool off while I call Parker Center – and then I have some things to say to _you_." He took another step. "On your feet, Agent."

David tried to intervene again. "Assistant Director…"

Wright whirled and leveled him with a look. "This is none of your concern, Agent Sinclair."

Colby stood slowly and sauntered toward the elevator. "Chill, Dave," he said. "No use both of us getting called on the carpet."

Agents Sinclair, Warner and Betancourt watched in distressed silence as Assistant Director Wright and Colby Granger walked to the elevator side-by-side, in stony silence. They watched until the two men boarded, and the doors closed behind them.

"Shit," said David, rubbing a hand on his bald head. "Shit." Then he picked up his phone, to call IT.

* * *

Phillip Wright waited almost two floors before he spoke. "Let me guess: that was the altercation in the bullpen that we talked about?"

Colby shrugged, grinning. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, when Don gets home, he'll get a kick out of that story."

"_Chickenshit_," said Wright, and Colby raised an eyebrow. "I said that you could temporarily call me '_Phil_'. I don't recall '_chickenshit_' being on the table."

Colby laughed so loudly that it echoed in the elevator, which was rapidly approaching its destination. "Phil," he remarked, "when this is over, you and I are going to have a beer."

Wright smiled and clapped Granger on the back. "Colby," he answered, "I'm in for a half-rack."

* * *

End Chapter 20


	21. Flying Under the Radar

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 21: Flying Under the Radar**

Anyone who used either the front or back entrance to the FBI building would be caught on camera. Colby was officially on a two-day suspension, as a disciplinary action for insubordination; of course, when this was all over, Assistant Director Wright would remove the note from his file -- and replace it with a commendation -- but for the time-being, his showing up at the office in the middle of the night would stand out like a red flag to anyone who might check the camera footage. Likewise, should the Assistant Director himself make a nocturnal call without being summoned, potential consequences would not be good. Colby and Phil discussed the problem while they were in Wright's office, before Colby took off on his "suspension" and went to the Craftsman to check in with Amita.

Wright tented his fingers under his chin and thought aloud. "Tomorrow is the 4th," he noted, "but as you know, a holiday doesn't necessarily mean anything at the Bureau; we still run skeleton crews in every department."

Colby grinned. "Why do you think I arranged to be suspended? The rest of the team is on-call; we had Memorial Day off, so it's our turn."

Wright suppressed a smile and rolled his eyes. "My point, agent, is that IT Services will keep working on that IP address. If they don't have anything by noon tomorrow -- 24 hours – it will mean that Amita's program is probably doing its job. In that case, my judgment is that it's safe for us to begin our investigation."

"So we need a copy of the file from the ice cream shop homicide," Colby supplied.

"Quite," agreed Wright. "Any ideas how we might accomplish procurement?"

Colby shook his head in disbelief. "Geez. They kick you guys upstairs, and you start talking like dictionaries."

Wright sighed. "We need the file tonight," he rephrased.

Colby grinned again, then let the grin fade as he considered their predicament. "Vacation," he suddenly said.

Wright raised an eyebrow.

Colby leaned forward in his chair at the conference table, enthusiasm entering his voice. "Schedules are rearranged all the time, especially in the summer, to cover for vacations."

"Not when an agent is suspended," Wright pointed out.

Colby tapped the top of the table several times with his hand. "No, no, not me," he clarified impatiently. "It was in the interdepartmental bulletin Tuesday; _'Forensics night shift supervisor Dr. Bill Samuels will be on vacation from July 2 through August 14. Assistant day shift supervisor Dr. Pat Renton will be supervising the night shift during that time'_; Pat started working nights last shift."

This time Wright did not suppress his smile. "You memorize interdepartmental bulletins, Granger? I wasn't even sure you _read_ them."

Colby reddened and forged ahead. "Dude. Our man Pat will legitimately be in the building all night long, with about half the usual number of staff to worry about."

Wright's smile widened as he pushed back his own chair and stood, starting toward the telephone on the corner of his desk. "I believe I feel a need to discuss holiday and vacation staffing with Dr. Renton," he mused. "Perhaps I should ask him to come in early, and stop by my office for a chat."

* * *

By the time Thursday arrived, Don was working overtime. The upcoming holiday packed the campground, and he needed to keep on top of its daily needs. In addition, preparations had to be completed for Friday evening's fish fry. Doris helped out by keeping a close eye on Charlie, even driving him to Doc Johnson's place for a check-up Thursday morning. Doc was pleased with Charlie's weight gain, but unhappy about the dark circles still under his eyes; he advised him to get more rest. Charlie had a few bad moments when Doris threatened to take the computer away. "Give me the name of that accounting teacher," she said. "I'll call and explain that you've been ill. Don't teachers ever cut their students a break?"

Charlie was too worried about losing the computer to contemplate the irony of the question. "No, please!" he begged. "I won't work on it so long anymore, I promise!" Doris did not look convinced, so Charlie tried another argument. "You're right, I can probably get an extension from the instructor; I'll e-mail him as soon as we get home."

Doris grunted. "See that you do," she said. "Then turn the damn thing off and take a nap until I bring you your lunch."

"Yes, ma'am," Charlie answered meekly.

When Don came in for lunch, he was a little surprised -- and worried -- to discover that Charlie had slept most of the morning away, and was not coming to the kitchen, but had been served his meal in his room. He accepted a ceramic serving dish containing mashed potatoes from Doris, and moved to put it on the table. "Is he okay?" he asked anxiously. "I haven't been spending enough time with him..."

Doris followed him with a basket of biscuits, which she sat next to a boat full of steaming sausage gravy. "Now, he's all right," she soothed. "Doc said he's mending real good; just needs a little more rest." She smiled and blushed slightly when Don pulled out her chair for her, and held it while she sat down. "You just sit on down and take a break," she said. "Don't need _you_ working yourself into a breakdown." Don looked toward the hallway uncertainly, and Doris began to dish food into her plate. "It'll be easier for him to go back to sleep without you barging in there," she pointed out. " 'Sides, we had a talk about that accounting class of his. I threatened to take the computer away -- he's been working too hard. He agreed to e-mail that teacher and ask for an extension, so I let him keep it."

Don groaned inwardly at this news. Threatening to take away Charlie's hard-won computer pretty much guaranteed off-the-charts stress; no wonder he had slept all morning. He was sure that Charlie would find a way to work without Doris catching on. He was also sure that she was right; Charlie probably _had_ been working too hard -- and as much as Don wanted all of this to be over, he couldn't let Charlie compromise his health any more. He'd have to watch him more carefully, he decided, ladling gravy all over his biscuits and potatoes, trying to ignore the fact that he was about to eat pork – taboo, according to his Jewish faith, but he didn't want to call attention to that by refusing the meal. He wondered fleetingly if God would mind the transgression when there were lives at stake, and pushed away the even darker thought that a man who had killed others during the course of his career perhaps had bigger worries than eating pork. He wrenched his mind back to their current situation. Maybe there was something Charlie could have him do, during the evenings.

Not that there was much "evening" left, by the time Don dragged himself in at dusk. He could barely stay awake long enough to eat dinner -- which was no longer half a sandwich, but another complete meal as extravagant as lunch. Charlie wasn't the only one gaining weight; Don was sure that if it wasn't for the physical labor involved in his job, he would balloon right out of his yard sale clothes.

He stopped by the room quickly to check on Charlie before he went to back to work. His brother was snoring softly on the bed – but the computer was whirring on the rickety table, so Don knew Charlie had been up to something. He sighed, rubbed his neck and gently closed the door; it was time to chop firewood again.

* * *

Don had not come in for the evening yet when Charlie, after staring at the computer monitor for almost five minutes, slowly closed the laptop and stood, intending to hunt Don down and tell him what he had discovered. Then he remembered that Doris had told him at dinner that she had sent Don into Idaho Falls, to pick up the order she had placed at a grocery store there -- the last of the fish fry supplies -- and Charlie thudded back down into the chair. He pushed a stray curl behind his ear and thought for a moment. Then, he retrieved his prepaid cell from the backpack under the table, and called Amita.

One ring, and her breathless voice greeted him. "Charlie! Oh, Charlie, we have to find a way to talk more often. I've been so worried about you all week — are you all right?"

He closed his eyes at the stab of pain hearing her husky voice caused. " 'Mita," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. Maybe I can buy more minutes for the phone, soon -- or use Don's, although he hasn't got that many left, either."

Amita repeated her question, sounding worried now. "Are you all right? Your voice sounds a little odd."

He opened his eyes again and smiled fondly. "I'm okay, baby," he answered. "I've had a little cold."

"You need to take care of yourself," she fretted.

"I'm okay," he repeated softly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Amita's tone of voice changed with the subject. "Are you any closer to getting a computer?" She had thought for days about her alliance with Colby and Phil Wright. She felt guilty about doing the one thing Charlie had begged her not to do -- trusting someone, even someone at the Bureau. Now, she purposefully left their names out of the conversation. "Listen," she said excitedly. "I was thinking. Maybe the people who attacked you tracked down both you and Don through your IP addresses -- you were both using computers. I designed a cloaking program, so that when you get a computer and start working again, the IP address will be untraceable. I think the app is ready to go; I just uploaded a copy to my _Primacy_ web page. There's a password-protected link. You can download it when you get a computer!"

Charlie experienced half-a-second of panic -- he'd had the fleeting thought himself, although he thought it improbable -- but calmed immediately. He had been working on the search since Monday, and nothing had happened. Still, the cloaking program couldn't hurt; and by designing it, Amita had tried to help. There was no point in telling her that he had been active on a computer for several days already; she was worried enough as it was. "That's great," he said. "I'm not convinced that's how they found us; but a cloaking program is a good idea. What's the password?"

Amita's voice took on a hint of both embarrassment -- and seduction. "All one word," she instructed. "First, spell out the number...um...the number of times we had sex, the night you proposed to me. Do you remember what that was?"

Charlie barked out a laugh of disbelief and dissolved into a coughing fit. He had to hold the phone away from his face for a few moments. He was still gasping when he returned the cell to his ear and started talking again. "My God, Amita! You think I'm likely to forget a thing like that?" He coughed again, then laughed. "Especially that second time."

She laughed in response. "I was quite impressed myself," she teased. "Your cold sounds terrible, sweetie..."

Charlie rolled his eyes, even though she couldn't see him. "What's next in the password?" he asked.

Amita sighed. "I'm glad you don't have a computer, yet. You obviously need some rest. The name of your favorite Kohaku koi; uppercase the first letter. Finally, the year the K-means clustering algorithm was designed."

Charlie shook his head and chuckled. "Geez, Amita. Overkill, much?"

She laughed. "Shut-up. I'm trying to be clandestine. I figure that's a good skill to develop, if I'm going to be married to a scientist who spends half his time working for the FBI...the NSA...the CDC..."

"All right, all right," Charlie interrupted. "But cluster analysis? That's a bit pedantic, don't you think?"

"I was in a hurry," she replied tartly.

He smiled fondly. "I love you," he said quietly. "I miss you so much."

Amita's voice was clogged with tears when she answered. "I love you, too," she responded, "and I feel as though one of my limbs is missing...I don't want to learn how to live without you, Charlie."

He swallowed thickly, and tried to lighten the mood. "That's because you're still trying to figure out how to live _with_ me," he teased.

Amita laughed softly. "Damn straight," she agreed, and Charlie laughed again. Once again the sound degenerated into a cough. Amita waited worriedly for him to catch his breath; when he did, she could still hear him wheezing into the phone. "You need to get some rest," she ordered. "Do you have any kind of medicine?"

He nodded. "I'm fully medicated," he assured her. "Don's been taking good care of me -- and so has the landlady."

Amita arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that image."

Charlie giggled, gently, not wanting to set off another round of coughing. "Don't worry, my love. She only has eyes for Don."

A _beep_ sounded, and Amita knew that she needed to recharge the cell. "When will you call again?" she asked hurriedly.

Another _beep_, and Charlie answered just as quickly. "I'm really low on minutes. I'll check Don's phone, and maybe I can call before next Thursday. If not, I've got to get into...town, to buy some more minutes. I'm not really sure..."

"I'll be waiting," Amita assured him. "Whenever it is. Take care of yourself, Charlie. I love...."

Another _beep_ obscured her last word, but Charlie understood anyway. "I love you, too," he whispered. " 'Night, 'Mita." He snapped the cell shut before she could hear the sob he knew was coming.

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his emotions. Tears were clogging his throat and he soon erupted into another coughing fit. This one ended in full-out gagging that almost had him rushing for the bathroom, but he managed to hold onto the delicious dinner Doris had served. He was still breathing raggedly when he dragged the laptop toward him and logged into Amita's _Primacy_ home page. Black spots were obfuscating his vision, but he managed to click on the password-protected link to the cloaking program. More slowly than he would have thought possible, with fumbling, sluggish fingers, Charlie typed _threeEinstein1967_ into the password field. The website took him to another screen, where the cloaking program began to download.

Exhausted, Charlie pushed back the chair and staggered slightly on his way to the bed. He would let the program download, and just lie down for a few minutes, while he waited for Don.

* * *

Dr. Pat Renton lifted a stack of files off the counter and made a nonchalant announcement to his skeleton crew. "I'm going to take these down to records," he said.

A junior tech glanced up from his microscope, surprised. He half stood. "Doctor, I can do that…"

Renton smiled. "No need, Bruce; you're in the middle of something, and I need a break before I get into the Anderson crime scene forensics." He yawned, and shook his head self-depreciatingly. "Guess I haven't acclimated to working the night shift yet. If I don't stretch my legs, I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

Bruce and the other two techs in the lab smiled. "Don't worry," Bruce said easily, looking back at his microscope. "You'll get used to it the night before Dr. Samuels gets back!"

Pat laughed. "You're probably right," he agreed woefully. He shifted the stack of files in his arms and headed for the wide corridor. "I should be back in 10."

He had planned his "impromptu" visit to records carefully. Checking shift logs in Wright's office that morning, he had seen that Laura Fishbein, the night supervisor in records, always took her lunch from 2 to 3 a.m. Wright checked the roster, and confirmed that only one clerk was scheduled to work with Ms. Fishbein that night.

At 2:15 a.m., Pat Renton smiled widely at a young woman scowling into a computer. "I think they save all the data entry for night," was his friendly opening statement.

She looked up, at first annoyed, and then relaxed a little when she saw his smile. "I _know_ they do," she grumbled. She eyed the file folders he was carrying. "Returning? Just drop them in the pile. I hate holidays. They still expect us to produce the same amount of work, with a skeleton staff."

Sam uttered a sympathetic grunt. "I know what you mean…but the case must go on!" He grinned at her charmingly and eyed the door that led to the file room. He knew there was a copy machine in there. If he could get some time alone in the room, he could pull the Ames file, feed it into the machine, and cover the noise the copier made by banging a few drawers while he replaced all the other files. Then he could re-file the Ames folder, and easily conceal the copies in his oversized lab coat. "I'm on a break," he noted. "I could file these myself; I'll even take the rest of the pile with me, and file those, too."

She started to look embarrassed. "No, no, that's all right. I mean, it's my job…I'm sorry I complained. It was inappropriate."

Pat persisted. "It was completely understandable," he soothed. "I don't mind at all, really. You can initial the log-in sheet, and I'll get to it." He glanced around. "Looks like you're all alone here; you should probably stay near the phone." Then he looked down shyly at the top of his shoes, and silently begged his wife to forgive him. "Perhaps you and I could go to lunch, afterwards, if your relief is back."

She smiled, and blushed prettily. "My _relief_ is actually my boss, and she won't be back until 3. Anyway," she continued morosely, "I've already had my lunch hour this shift."

Pat was surprised that the flirting game came back to him so easily; he had been married almost ten years. He allowed some confidence to enter his game, and winked at her. "Even better," he decided. "A man needs some beautiful and interesting company for breakfast. We could go to the diner just down the street – they open at six, I believe."

She smiled directly into his eyes. "That sounds marvelous," she answered. "Here; let me initial that log-in sheet."

* * *

Doris had left some a Mexican casserole in a warm oven, and after she helped Don unload the groceries, she insisted that he sit and have some. Don was so tired he probably wouldn't have bothered, without her there to force dinner on him; but after the first bite, he was glad she did. He relaxed when she told him that Charlie had joined her in the kitchen for dinner, and had already looked better after a day of napping; Don had a second helping.

He and Doris chatted amicably about the next day's fish fry. He found it charming when the middle-aged woman blushed and made a confession. "I got me a box of that hair dye," she said. "Even though he's short-handed with a full campground of his own, Harry's gonna come over for dinner tomorrow night. I'm making some of his favorite coleslaw, too."

Don smiled and winked at her. "You're a good-looking lady as you are, Doris. I don't think you need the box of hair dye."

Her blush deepened. "Well, I don't rightly know if I'll have time to use it," she hedged. "Have some more casserole."

Eventually, so stuffed he could barely move, Don headed down the connecting hall toward the room he and Charlie shared. He opened the door quietly – but Charlie was awake, sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking as if he had lost his best friend. Don's hackles went up, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "What?" he demanded.

Charlie pulled no punches. "_Illusion Corporation_," he said, in a voice that was still raspier than Don would have liked. "It's registered in the Dominican Republic, so it took me a few days to track down ownership. The stock is held by a partnership – and we know one of the owners."

Don blinked in surprise and moved toward the cot, so he could sit next to his brother. "Who?" he asked, lowering himself to the bed.

Charlie frowned as he answered. "J. Everett Tuttle."

* * *

End, Chapter 21


	22. Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 22: Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire**

Matt propped his cast up on the plastic booth seat and leaned back against the window, grinning slightly, watching Gloria's cute little ass gyrate as she scurried around the diner counter. He'd never thought a broken ankle could be a vacation, but that's exactly what it had been – he'd gotten at least a week off from his job at Harry's Hideaway, and he'd spent most of it right here, at the diner, keeping Gloria company. Of course, he also bought his meals there, and coffee or a soda in between, so Pete, the diner's owner, wouldn't get upset over him lounging there, day after day. Actually, he really didn't think Pete minded him there, so much – business had been slow that summer with the recession, and out-of-towners were more likely to stop at a place they didn't know if they saw others inside.

Gloria passed him with a tray and rolled her eyes; it was lunchtime on July 4th and she was working the shift alone, with the exception of one cook, aptly nicknamed Cookie, in the back. Fortunately, there weren't many people in the diner – they were all out at the parade in Idaho Falls, or at picnics. Many of the local people and campers would go to eat at the fish fry at Snake River Lodge that afternoon, which started at four, so most of them wouldn't eat lunch out, and besides, it was nearly three o'clock, a little late for lunch. Still, the few people who had shown up had Gloria hopping, and Matt admired the faint sheen of dewy moisture that the exertion had put on her skin, as she threw herself into the seat opposite him.

"Pete outta close this place down on the 4th of July," she muttered. "I can't see the sense in it. Cookie and me have to work our butts off, and Pete pays us almost as much as he takes in. He can't be makin' no money. He ought to just let us have the day off."

Matt grinned at her, lazily. "But then I wouldn't get to watch you run around in that short little skirt," he teased.

Her scowl eased into a grin, and she batted her eyelashes at him. "Who says you wouldn't?"

Her suggestive tone seemed to go unnoticed, and she frowned a little, following Matt's gaze over her shoulder, and then sighed as she picked up the three men who had come through the back entrance. She perked up almost immediately; although they were all wearing jeans like most campers, they sported decent shirts and expensive cowboy boots. Jeans looked designer, too; come to think of it – they were undoubtedly city folk playing at camping, and Gloria sensed tips – good ones.

She started to rise as the men came toward her, but to her surprise, they waved her back down and approached the booth; the big man in front, who had a shaved head and a mustache, was holding out a picture. "We're looking for these men," said the big man, flashing some kind of ID at them with his other hand – too briefly to read, but it looked official. They were some kind of cops then, decided Gloria, and she peered at the photo.

"Their names are Don and Charlie Eppes," continued the man. "We were told they were in the area, or had been a few days ago. Do they look familiar to either of you?"

Gloria shook her head, but to her surprise, Matt spoke up. "Yeah – the one looks exactly like Chad. In fact, it _is_ Chad, I'm sure of it. I know his cousin's in town too, but I only seen him once, and he has a beard – doesn't look too much like the guy in the picture."

The bald man's eyes flickered. "You say 'in town,' – so they're still here?"

Matt frowned a little, and hedged. "Why you askin'? They do somethin' wrong?"

The man smiled, but it wasn't warm; in fact, it sent a shiver down Gloria's spine. "No, no, nothing wrong," said the man. "We think they can help with an investigation, that's all. In fact, there might be a reward in it for them."

Matt's face cleared. "Well, shit, I'm sure they could use that. Chad was workin' with me at Harry's Hideaway, but he fell sick, and he's been off the whole week. He's stayin' with his cousin at Snake River Lodge. Dave works there." His face contorted in confusion again. "If they didn't do nothin' wrong, then why would they change their names?"

The man leaned forward, glanced from side to side, and then whispered. "They're hiding from the mob," he said. "We need them to testify, and we're trying to get them to come in. Don't say a word to anyone – it could mean their lives." He straightened and said in normal tone, "Thanks for the info. We appreciate it. We've been in town for almost two days, and we hadn't gotten anything until now." He smiled. "Believe me; they will never forget this." With a jerk of his head at the men behind him, he turned on his heel and walked out.

Gloria watched them go, eyes wide. "Wow. The mob. Just like the movies."

Matt was frowning again. "Yeah," he answered absently.

"What?"

"I dunno," he said, scratching his head. "Why wouldn't those men just have asked Sheriff Jarrett if they wanted to find them?"

Gloria shrugged. "Maybe they did, and he didn't know."

Matt shook his head. "No way. Sheriff Jarrett always knows everything that goes on in this town, and he would have for sure recognized Dave – the sheriff is always out at Snake River Lodge – Doris is his sister, remember? I'm sure he would have run into Dave out there, prob'ly Chad, too, since Chad's been there all this week."

Gloria shrugged again. "Well, maybe you can ask him."

Matt sat up and looked at her, uncertainly. "You think we should? Maybe he'd think we were being wise-asses, especially if he already talked to the guys."

She sniffed, and got up wearily. "That's your call," she said. "I'm stayin' out of this one." She headed toward the counter, and Matt slumped in his seat, frowning.

* * *

Derek Mace and his men, Jackie Carotta and Lew Spisak, pulled up on the road in front of Snake River Lodge, and surveyed the scene. Cars filled the campground lot and spilled out along the rural highway, pulled off onto the grassy berm. A simple white sign with red and white letters, obviously used previously, advertised "4th of July Fish Fry, 4-9 p.m. Fireworks at dark," but just as obviously, no advertisement was needed – the place was packed.

Lew spoke up from the back seat. "So what now? It's too damn crowded to try anything."

Derek thinned his lips; it was an expression he made when reflecting, and Lew always thought it made him look like a piranha, about to take a bite. "We wait until dark," he said. "The crowd might actually work to our advantage – we can mingle in, and take them out while everyone's watching the fireworks. No one will notice a couple of silenced shots with all the noise. It was nice of the kid to let us know that Don Eppes has a beard now. We'll get there a little before the fireworks, and scope out the place, find out where they are. When the fireworks display starts, we'll do it and get out."

Jackie nodded approvingly. "Sounds like a plan to me. I can't wait to get out of this one-horse shit-hole."

Derek grinned, as he stepped on the gas. "The boss is gonna like tonight's report," he said, and the sedan slipped smoothly past the campground, and headed down the road**.**

* * *

Matt whiled away the next few hours, watching the few stragglers come in for dinner. Almost everyone in town was at the fish fry at Snake River Lodge, he reflected, which would be in full swing about now. At around seven-thirty, Gloria brought him a hamburger and fries for his dinner, and said, "One more hour. I'm getting' ready to put out the closed sign, and it'll only take about a half hour to clean up – Cookie and I have been trying to keep up with that. You and I should be able to get out to the Lodge in time for the fireworks." He sat there silently, and toyed with a pickle.

She snitched a fry, and chewed it reflectively, watching him. "What's the matter?"

Matt sighed. "I dunno – it's eatin' at me – those men. I keep thinkin' I should run that past Sheriff Jarrett."

Gloria raised an eyebrow, with a glance out the window behind him. "Well, maybe you'll get that chance. If I'm not mistaken, he's pullin' up outside right now." Sheriff Jarrett's car had indeed pulled up outside, and the man in question was already out, and headed toward the front door of the diner.

She walked toward the door. "Evenin', Sheriff," she said, as Sam Jarrett came through the entrance. "What can I get you?"

"Just a coffee, Gloria, thanks," he said, and Matt watched as he sat wearily on a stool at the counter. "I've got to get out to Snake River Lodge to help with crowd control for the fireworks." He sighed. "I hate the Fourth."

"I hear ya," agreed Gloria, fervently.

"Bunch o' idiots with firecrackers," said Jarrett, and he shook his head and took a sip, as Gloria darted a meaningful look toward Matt.

Jarrett caught the glance, turned, and pretended to be surprised as he spotted Matt. "Hey, Matt – how's the ankle?"

"Okay," said Matt. "Gettin' there. I'm s'posed to go back and help Harry with paperwork next week. He said sumthin' 'bout puttin' together a mailin' list of regular campers." He made a face, then said carefully, "He oughta ask Chad to do that. From the way Chad talks, he likes computers." Another exchanged glance with Gloria.

Sam Jarrett made no comment, just studied him for a moment, then got up with his coffee and headed over to the booth, and slid in across from him. "So why don't you tell me what's up?" he asked quietly.

Matt eyed him warily. "What's up with what?"

Sam snorted softly. "C'mon, Matt – you and Gloria obviously have somethin' on your minds; I can read it all over your faces. Spill."

Matt reddened a bit, then sighed. "Well, you prob'ly know this already – maybe you already talked to them."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Talked to who?"

"Those three men in town – they were askin' around about Chad and Dave." He leaned forward across the table, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You know – those cops, or agents or somethin'. They didn't talk to you?"

Sam looked at him, and Matt reflected that the sheriff's face had gone completely blank – as if he'd carefully wiped all the expression from it. "No, they didn't," he said evenly. "What'd they want?"

Matt's forehead furrowed. "Now that's funny – you'd think they'd go straight to you. I _knew_ there was somethin' fishy about this. They hauled out a picture, said they were lookin' for two men named Don and Charlie Eppes. When I looked at the picture, I saw the one guy was Chad, for sure. The other one didn't look a whole lot like Dave, but he didn't have beard in the picture, and I ain't seen too much of Dave, so it could be him."

Sam took a careful, controlled sip of his coffee. "Did they say why they wanted to talk to them?"

Matt nodded. "The big guy – you can't miss him, he's about six three, 250 pounds, shaved head, all muscle – he leaned over to me and Gloria – she was sittin' here with me – and said they wanted to put them into witness protection, 'cause they wanted them to testify against the mob. Made it sound secret – all hush-hush."

Sam pursed his lips. "So did you tell them where they were?"

Matt grimaced. "Yeah. They said they would get protection and some kind of reward, and he flashed this official-lookin' ID so I thought they were legit, at first. After they left though, I got to thinkin' – why didn't they just ask you?"

Sam set his coffee cup down. His expression was still blank, but Matt saw that his hand was tight as he released the handle of the cup, and it made a loud clink as it hit the saucer. "How long ago was this?"

"This afternoon – 'bout three o'clock," said Matt. "I been thinkin' about it ever since – thought maybe I'd talk to Chad when we got out to the Lodge tonight for the fireworks."

Sam nodded, threw a five down on the table, and rose. Matt eyed it. "Gloria'll get you some change," he said. He looked up anxiously. "Did I screw up? I don't want to get Chad in trouble – he's a pretty good guy."

Sam shook his head. "Nah, Matt, it was good you told me. I'll check it out – make sure everyone is on the up-and-up." He turned and headed for the door, tossing a wink at Gloria. "Keep the change."

Matt and Gloria watched him go, and then looked at each other. Gloria shrugged, and swabbed at the counter with a rag, and Matt turned to look out the window, just in time to see the sheriff's car heading out of town, toward the Snake River Lodge.

* * *

Charlie looked up as Don stepped through the door, dripping with sweat and smelling of perspiration and hot grease. He wrinkled his nose. "Man – you need a shower."

"Tell me about it," Don grunted. The fact was, he had never wanted one so badly, but he didn't have time. He was going to grab a bite to eat, make sure that Charlie ate, and then start in on cleaning up the set-up for the fish fry, while the fireworks started. He plopped two paper plates on the table, both steaming, filled with fried fish, French fries, and ears of corn. Charlie sniffed at his, then picked up his fork and dug in.

"Hot. Good," he managed, around a mouthful of fish.

Don scratched at his beard and grinned at him. Charlie's appetite was improving, and he looked much better than earlier in the week, but he still had a way to go. The doctor had come to conclusion that he'd contracted a mild case of pneumonia, along with the flu – Charlie was still pale, weak, and had a nasty cough, but each day brought some improvement. Don cocked his head at the computer. "Anything new?"

Charlie shook his head and sighed. "Still running search programs, trying to look for the other owner or owners of the joint bank account. Tuttle's got a slick operation going – his programs siphon small amounts of money from small businesses, run them through small bank accounts that trace back to Illusion, Corp. and then Illusion, Corp. makes deposits into the offshore bank account. I have no way of knowing how many others are in on it – the offshore bank won't release any other information other than the fact that it's a joint account, so there must be at least one more besides Tuttle." He paused. "Maybe this is enough. Maybe we should just turn this much in."

Don shook his head and swallowed a bite of corn. "No. We can't – not until we have proof of who else is involved. If it's someone high up in law enforcement, like Montague, he could squelch the case, and we'd end up right back where we started – hell, we'd for sure be targets, then."

Charlie sighed again, and the exaggerated breath brought on a coughing fit. When it subsided, he wiped his eyes and said, "Yeah, you're right, of course." He smiled ruefully. "Just wishful thinking. I can't wait until this is over."

Don nodded, as he speared a chunk of fish. "Me too, Buddy. Me too."

* * *

Three cars doors slammed, and Mace, Carotta, and Spisak turned from the car and sauntered slowly toward the campground. The smell of hot oil was redolent, wafting through the air, which was turning cooler. Darkness was falling, dinner was over, and the crowd was milling about, grabbing a last lemonade or beer, and jockeying for position in the open area designated for watching the fireworks. Jackie Carotta adjusted the gun under his jacket, imperceptibly, touching the butt almost lovingly. He couldn't wait for this – he was hoping to get one of them himself, feel the rush of power, the thrill that came with putting a bullet in a man's forehead. "Where they at?" he asked, his eyes darting around the crowd. "You see 'em yet?"

"Quiet," ordered Mace. "Stick together until we get over by the cooking area – we'll look for Don Eppes first – he'll be the tougher one to nail. Be patient, we'll be out of here in a bit."

"Good," muttered Lew. Although he had no qualms over killing a man, he wasn't as bloodthirsty as Jackie, and the thought of pulling this off in a crowd was making him nervous. "I can't wait until this is over."

Derek Mace grinned, his lips thinning, a piranha's smile. "Me too, Lew. Me too."

* * *

End, Chapter 22


	23. On the Road Again

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 23: On the Road Again**

Sam Jarrett scanned the darkening campground, his face inscrutable, belying the tightness he felt in his gut. He'd arrived moments ago; a quick look through the cooking area and the dining tent behind it revealed no Don Eppes, and he'd headed for the fireworks set-up area. A professional crew was working there; no Eppes there, either, and he turned away, deciding to head for the house. As he turned, he froze. Across the way, even in the dimness, he could see the light orb that was surely a bald head moving through the crowd. Yes – a big man, just as Matt had described, and he had two others with him. They were moving slowly, but their eyes were scanning the throng, and Sam was sure by the telltale bulges that they were packing under their jackets.

"Damn it," he muttered. He had to find Eppes, and fast.

They were moving toward the cooking area, but he was closer, and his heart jumped as he spotted Don Eppes, who had appeared back at the food tables in front of the tent, and was in the process of gathering the large tin foil pans they'd used for serving. Sam slipped through the crowd and grabbed Don's arm, pulling him behind the dining tent, with an urgent hiss, "Back here."

Eppes came with him readily, although he immediately tensed, his dark eyes raking Jarrett's face. "What is it?"

"Three guys – looking for you. I just came from town – they were asking about you, flashing a picture of you and your brother. They're here – heading this way – big guy about six three, with a bald head."

Don took a quick look around the side of the tent. To a trained agent, the three thugs stuck out like a sore thumb – he was surprised he hadn't picked them up earlier. They were scanning the crowd, and his gut contracted.

"You gotta get out of here," Jarrett continued. "For your own sakes; and the crowd's. I can't have a shooting here. Take Harry's computer with you, and don't come back. In fact, I'd get as far from here as possible. Can you get your car out?"

Don nodded, with another quick look around the front of the tent. The men were closer now, and as they approached, Don and Sam began sidling around the back corner of the tent, keeping out of view. "Yeah – Doris had us park down at the edge of the road, to leave more room for the guests." They were behind the back side of the tent now, momentarily out of sight, and he looked at Jarrett, steadily. "Thanks. Thanks for everything. Tell Harry we'll get him some money for the computer, and apologize to Doris for me, for skipping out on her."

Sam fished around in his wallet, and thrust some bills at him. "Here – take this. It's not a lot, but it'll buy you some gas. When this is over, call me and tell me how it came out. Information will connect you to the office, and dispatch will forward the call to my cell. Now go."

Don took the money, gave him a quick pat on the arm, and with one quick look around the tent, headed for the house, snaking quickly through the crowd. The men were on the far side of the tent now, but as soon as Don was a few yards clear of it, if the men turned around, they would be able to see him. The thought that they might be watching made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but he didn't look back. His heart pounding, he darted the last few yards to the back of the house, and ducked in through the back door.

Charlie looked up, startled, as he burst through the doorway and shut the door quickly behind him. "Come on, Chuck, we gotta go!" ordered Don, and he seized his brother's arm and pulled him to his feet. "Grab the computer – we'll head out through the front of the house!"

"What -," Charlie began, but with one look at Don's face he cut off his words, and darted over to unplug the computer. Don was throwing their meager belongings into the duffel, and then he charged over to the bed and pulled out his gun from under the mattress. Charlie's eyes widened, but he said nothing. His face pale, he clutched the computer and its cords to his chest, and hurried out the door behind his brother.

Through the kitchen, then the living room, then the front reception area, and then they were outside, bounding across the porch in the darkness. Charlie was in sweats and his stocking feet, but ran, heedless of the sharp gravel as they crossed the entranceway, his breath coming in painful gasps from his healing lungs. Don flung a quick look toward the back of the campground as they cleared the house, and in the lights around the tent, he saw the three men heading back their direction, saw their heads come up; saw them start to run toward them.

They made the car, and Don jumped in and started it as Charlie flung himself in his seat and slammed the door, still clutching his computer to his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Don saw the men clearing the crowd, saw two of them reaching in their jackets and then leveling their arms. "Duck, Charlie!" he ordered. Charlie did, and Don hunched down as much as he could and still see the road, as the Crown Vic's tires spun on the gravel, then screeched in protest as they found pavement. The car surged forward, into the night.

* * *

"Sam!" Doris hurried toward him, her face filled with worry, and she stopped next to him, breathless. "One of the guests told me that three men just ran out of here, and they were holding guns!"

Sam kept his eyes toward the road, and watched as a dark Ford Taurus pulled out of the guest lot with a short screech of tires, accelerating after the Crown Vic, which only had a few seconds' head start. "Yes, Dorie," he said mildly. "There were. They're gone now, but I'll stick around to make sure."

She gaped at him. "Shouldn't you go after them?"

He sighed. "I thought about that – I'd like to, but I need to stay here, I think, and make sure everything's okay." He looked down at her. "You just worry about your guests, and when this is over, we'll go in, have a cup of coffee, and I'll tell you about it. Just tell your guests that everything is under control."

She stared at him a moment, then when it became apparent that he wasn't going to elaborate, nodded uncertainly, and made off through the crowd. Sam Jarrett sighed, as the first of the fireworks burst overhead. "Drive fast, Don Eppes," he whispered. "God speed to you both."

* * *

Don floored it, heading west on the dark two-lane road, the Crown Vic surging and bounding as it hit minor dips in the pavement. Charlie was eerily silent as he was jostled in his seat, his face dead white in the darkness as he shot fearful glances behind them. Someone less intelligent or less introspective might have been babbling in that situation, asking questions that had no answer, but Charlie grasped the reality – the reality that they were being pursued by men with guns, that Don had to concentrate on the road, that they were driving way too fast down a dark country highway. Don was thankful for the silence because he had to concentrate, thankful that he'd decided to fill up the tank a few days ago, thankful that the Crown Vic had the cop performance package, and was capable of 160 miles an hour. Not that he was going quite that fast; he couldn't, down a two lane road at night, but as soon as they hit a major highway, he would be.

Don's eyes narrowed as he picked up headlights coming toward them in the opposite lane, and then his heart lurched as he picked up the red glow of taillights down the road. Someone ahead of them, and it looked like he was going to reach the car in his lane before the car in the eastbound lane passed them. That meant he would have to slow down until it did, and slowing down was not good – it would bring the men and their guns within firing range. He punched the gas, and the car leapt forward. Charlie had seen the taillights, too, and he finally spoke – rasped, rather, "What are you doing?"

"Hang on, Chuck," muttered Don between clenched teeth, and he jerked the wheel left as they came up on the back of a white pickup in their lane, and swerved over into the eastbound lane. For a split second, they faced the oncoming car, head on, faces lit chalky white by its headlights, and then they were past the pickup. Don jerked the wheel right and they squeaked back into their lane, just as the oncoming car roared past with a blare of its horn. Don stepped on the gas again with a quick glance in the rearview mirror, noting with satisfaction that their pursuers had come up on the pickup behind them, slowing momentarily as the eastbound car blew past, before they could pass. He and Charlie had gained a second or two, and a few hundred yards.

Don grinned a little, his expression feral. "I think that guy in the other lane just pissed his pants."

"Forget about _him_," Charlie said breathlessly. "I think I just pissed mine." He reached shakily for his seat belt.

"Don't bother," Don said tersely, and Charlie stared at him blankly as he continued. "We may need to get out in a hurry, and if we have an accident at this speed, a seatbelt won't do you any good anyway."

Charlie swallowed, still staring at him, and reluctantly released his grip on the belt, swaying as the car hit dips and varying grades in the road – irregularities that would have been unnoticeable at lower speeds, but were magnified at this velocity. The car was lurching, heaving and lunging like a live animal, eating up road at a frightening rate, and even so, Don was just managing to keep his distance from the car behind them. It was a Taurus; he could tell from the headlights and the grill, and he frowned, wondering if it had a performance package – the Taurus was also used as a police vehicle.

They blew through Heise, and Don was thankful again – thankful that the streets were deserted, that most of the inhabitants were watching the fireworks. Then through a series of twisting roads and hair-raising bends, all the while with the Taurus behind them, not losing ground, but not able to gain any either. Finally, at Ririe, they caught a break – they roared through a yellow light. The Taurus tried to follow, but a semi pulled across into the intersection as the cross light turned green, and the Taurus came to a screeching halt. Don could just make out that it had turned sideways when he looked under the semi in the rear view mirror, and he wondered for a moment if they'd crashed, but he could see their wheels moving again just as he lost sight around a bend, and he knew that they were still coming. The delay was enough, however; directly ahead lay the 'on' ramp for Interstate 26, and Don took the road east without hesitation. Now he was on a major highway properly graded for speed, and he floored it, pushing it all the way up to 150 miles per hour.

He heard Charlie's intake of breath beside him as they accelerated. Luckily their side of the highway was two-lane and sparsely traveled, and he easily made it around any eastbound traffic, rocketing past them as if they were standing still. He had lost sight of the Taurus, but he kept on at that speed for at least a hundred miles, praying that they didn't encounter any state troopers. Finally, with no signs of pursuit, he slowed to 85 miles per hour, which was above the speed limit, but not outside the realm of normal in the unpopulated far west – hopefully it was slow enough to keep them from getting a ticket. He gingerly lifted one hand from the wheel at a time; they were nearly clenched into fists from the tension, and flexed his fingers. Beside him, Charlie exhaled, as if he'd been holding his breath the entire time. "That was intense."

Don nodded silently, and the car slipped on through the night, across the Wyoming border, turning and snaking south until they reached Interstate 80. There, Don went east again, still going, still running, putting as much distance between them and their pursuers as possible.

* * *

"We lost 'em."

"I _know_ that," snarled Mace, directing an annoyed glance at Lew, in the back seat. They'd reached I-26 to find the Crown Victoria nowhere in sight, and had chosen to go west, toward Idaho Falls, figuring the Eppes brothers would make their way toward I-15, and head in the general direction of L.A. There was no sign of them, and after a half hour of driving, the possibilities were endless. Eppes had a fast car – he could be on the road ahead and had simply outrun them, he could have gone the other way on I-26 and headed east toward Wyoming, or he could have gotten off on some podunk little byway, and be headed God-knows-where.

Mace fished out his cell phone and called Tuttle, the last person he wanted to talk to, but there was no help for it. He was put on speaker - Tuttle was in the computer room with Nardek, and when Tuttle was finished with his explosion, Nardek asked, "Did they take the computer with them?"

"I have no idea," snarled Mace, still smarting from his verbal whipping from Tuttle.

"Then go back and check," Nardek advised. "See if they took it. If we can get the serial number somehow, I'll bet Montague can get someone with the right equipment to access and track the GPS chip in it, and we can find out where they are. Maybe you can go back to the man who owned it – Harry Sackett – sneak into his office, and see if he has the paperwork for it – it'll have the serial number in it somewhere. Of course, if they didn't take the laptop with them, we'll want to go back anyway – I'll want to look at the computer. Charlie Eppes must have loaded some kind of program on it that keeps us from being able to access his IP address – he started using it yesterday. I want to know how it works, because if he gets his hands on another computer, you can bet he'll load that program before he starts his electronic searches again, and we won't be able to find the IP address of his new computer."

"Get moving," growled Tuttle. "Nardek tells me that he's gotten pings on Illusion, Corp., which means Eppes has gotten at least that far. We need to find them and take them out before they get any further. Call us when you get back to their room, and let us know what you find."

"Got it," said Mace shortly, and disconnected the call. He hit an opening in the median, did an illegal U-turn, and headed north on I-15.

"What are we doing?" asked Jackie, looking at Mace from the passenger seat.

"Heading back to Snake River Lodge, to pay a little visit," said Mace. "We need to check out where they were staying, see if they took the computer with them."

"What if someone's there?" asked Jackie. "Like the owner?"

"Then we take 'em out."

Jackie settled back in his seat, satisfied at the reply. He'd already suspected the answer, but he liked to hear it – maybe he'd get a chance to shoot someone tonight, after all.

They made their way back to the campground, which had settled back down for the evening. The extra crowd had left the site, many of the campers had gone to bed, and except for a few campfires going at the far back of the campground; it was dark and silent. They snuck in through a back door, and found themselves in what must have been the room that the Eppes men had been using. Jackie wanted to go through the house and deal with anyone who might be there, but Mace nixed that idea, and instead had Jackie stand guard at the door while Mace and Lew went through the room.

Lew made right for a computer case that had been half-kicked under the bed, and grunted as he lifted it. "Empty," he said, but he laid it on the bed and opened it anyway.

"Go through it," said Mace. "Nardek said to look for any literature or receipts that have might have the serial number."

"Here's something," said Lew, pulling out a brochure. He flipped through the pages and his face brightened. "It's a standard information brochure, but they've got the model and serial number stamped inside."

"All right," said Mace. He paused a moment, considering. "We probably should check the rest of the house to be sure the computer's not here somewhere." He looked at Jackie. "There's a woman who runs this place – she may be alone, she may not. Make sure your silencer's on."

Jackie grinned, and led the way out of the room, down the hallway to the kitchen.

* * *

Sheriff Sam Jarrett hunkered in the woods behind a big pine, and watched the three shadowy figures slip in through the back door, profoundly grateful he'd taken Doris to his place. After the fireworks, he'd hastily helped her clear away the food, telling her they'd take down the tables and the dining tent in the morning. Harry Sackett was there; he had stayed to help. Sam could see the questions in both of their eyes, but he didn't explain until he had them both in the car – he decided on the spot that Harry should stay at his place that night, also, just in case. If it gave the two of them a chance to talk, well then, that was just a coincidental side benefit. On the way there, Sam had given them the barest details; in fact, he'd stretched the story to say that Chad and Dave were both undercover agents. The wounded outrage in Doris' eyes that had appeared when she found that Don Eppes had deserted her in the middle of her party, subsided into solemn anxiety. "Do you think they're okay?" she kept asking, and Sam replied each time, "Don Eppes strikes me as a sharp agent; I'm sure they're fine." The truth was; he hadn't known they were really all right, and still didn't. The reappearance of the thugs at Snake River Lodge could mean that they'd either caught and killed the Eppes brothers and were just cleaning up loose ends, or that the Eppes men had escaped, and the hit men were back to look for clues as to where they'd gone. Sam fervently hoped it was the latter.

Now he clenched his teeth, watching as a light flicked on in Doris' office window, and a large dark figure slipped over to close the blinds. Thank God, Doris wasn't there…

After about a half hour, the figures slipped quietly out the front. Sam's hand went unconsciously to his service weapon and he squinted in the darkness from under the trees, trying to see if they had taken anything, but their hands appeared empty. They got into the Ford Taurus and drove off, and Sam emitted a shaky breath. Just then, his cell phone buzzed, and he groped for it. "Sam Jarrett," he said quietly.

Don Eppes' voice came over the line. "I think we lost 'em, but you should maybe have Doris stay with you for a couple of days."

Sam grunted. "I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that you lost 'em – they were just here." At Don's exclamation, he said, "Don't worry, I already took care of Doris, she's at my place. They came back here to Snake River Lodge, and poked around the house for a bit, then left. It didn't look like they took anything with them."

"Okay," said Eppes, and Sam could hear the relief in his voice. "I won't call you again until this is over – thanks again for the help."

"No problem," replied Sam. "You just do me two favors, you hear? Take care of yourselves, and put those bastards away." He heard Eppes' quiet acquiescence, and then the call disconnected.

A clunking sound made his heart jump, and he looked sharply over at the dim forms of the trash containers over by the food tent, in time to see a dark-four legged figure scurry past.

"Damn raccoons," he muttered, and stalked off towards his car.

* * *

End Chapter 23

* * *

_A/N:_ For readers hoping for a little Don Whump: there is bad news, and good news. The bad news, you can discern for yourselves over the remaining chapters; the good news is, if you stick around for _Perception Deception Part Two_, your dreams may come true. We intend for _PD_ to be a trilogy; there will be enough whump to go around.


	24. Chicago, What a Wonderful Town

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 24: Chicago, What a Wonderful Town**

They rolled into Lincoln, Nebraska at about nine the next morning, and Don pulled off behind some semis in the back of a truck stop parking lot and stopped the car, reflecting that they'd probably just set the Idaho Falls-to-Lincoln land speed record. He glanced at Charlie, dead asleep, slumped against the door. With the engine off, Don could hear a slight wheeze when his brother exhaled, and he frowned. Charlie looked pale and clammy; he still wasn't well, and this trip wasn't going to do him any favors. Never mind the fact that they'd been this close to being shot the night before. Don shuddered to think what might have happened if the men had gone in the house first, instead of searching the crowd. They would have found Charlie first, alone and defenseless...

"I should never have brought you into this," he whispered, looking sadly at Charlie. It was the second time, he reflected, that they'd barely escaped with their lives. '_Third time's the charm_,' rolled unbidden through his head, and he lifted his shoulders, as if to physically shrug off the thought. Then he sighed, reclined his seat, made sure the doors were locked and he could reach his gun, and settled into an uneasy sleep.

They were off again at 1:00 p.m., after stopping for gas and some cellophane-wrapped sandwiches at the gas station. They continued east on I-80, and by nine that night, they had reached Chicago. Don didn't hesitate, he drove purposefully through the sprawling, congested highways, and Charlie looked at him curiously. "Where are we going?"

"I did a favor for a guy, when I was in fugitive recovery," Don replied, his eyes scanning the exit signs. "He said if I ever needed anything when I was in Chicago, to look him up. I'm gonna see if I can get us a place to stay."

"We're staying here?"

Don shrugged and shot him a glance. "It's as good a place as any. It's easier to stay unnoticed in a big city."

They eventually made their way into an exclusive neighborhood. It was gated, and the man at the gate had to call the owner of the home with Don's name, but they were let in immediately. They pulled up a curving drive to a stately home, and Charlie waited in the car while Don went up to the house. He was back in a few minutes. "We got a place off the beaten track – one of the guy's businesses closed down and he hasn't been able to sell the property. It's a warehouse with a small office – it'll be a good place to work."

It was now near ten, and Charlie yawned and rubbed his face. The yawn prompted a coughing spell, and when it was over, he wiped his eyes and said, "We should have grabbed the mat and the sleeping bag when we took off – I doubt there'll be beds."

"We'll stop and get a couple of cots at a Wal-Mart®, or something," said Don, as he tooled the car through the quiet streets and out past the gate. "My acquaintance also fronted us a little money."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "What did you do for him, anyway?"

"I brought in a guy who had killed a member of his family. The killer took off before they could bring him into custody, and Billy Cooper and I tracked him down."

Charlie's brows rose. "The guy killed a member of his family? What - like a mafia shooting, or something?"

"No," said Don quietly. "The perp abducted and killed his ten-year-old son."

Charlie's eyes widened and he turned to look back at the affluent neighborhood as they cleared the gate. "Wow," he said softly. "I guess no one's safe anymore, are they?"

* * *

Amita felt like a double agent; she suddenly sympathized with Colby's Chinese experience more than she ever had, before.

She had been afraid to tell Charlie that she was working with Granger and Phillip Wright; Charlie had begged her not to trust anyone, and if he found out what she was doing, he might sever all contact with her. It would break her heart to lose what little comfort she found in an occasional five-minute phone call. Poor Robin had not heard from Don at all. She didn't seem to be holding a grudge about the lack of communication; on the contrary, she claimed Don's silence was completely necessary and understandable. Still, when she went home at night, surely there were moments when the tough prosecutor disappeared, and a lonely woman took her place. Amita feared that she wouldn't have been so tolerant and accepting, had their roles been reversed.

Then she found she was also apprehensive about how much she told Colby, and Phil. She did not report every detail of every phone call; in fact, she told them as little as possible. Sometimes, she did not even mention that she had talked to Charlie. She designed the algorithm they requested, and eagerly accepted the file of documents generated by the case that originally started Don's search. She did not ask how they got them, and she carefully stored them in an encrypted nest on the laptop in the garage; then locked the hard copy in the floor safe; the last thing Charlie needed was for illegally obtained FBI materials to be found in his possession, when he returned.

And he _would_ return, Amita told herself at least fifty times a day, probably in time for the new school year. They would joke, and laugh, as a family, about Don's and Charlie's excellent summer adventure. First she would slap him, and then she would rip out half of his curls during the most intense sexual experience of their mutual lives (night of engagement included), but eventually, they would laugh.

It was always around this point in the fantasy that she started to cry.

* * *

"Show me the money."

Don had just eased the Crown Vic into a parking space at Wal-Mart®, cut the engine, and reached for the door handle so that he could get out of the vehicle. He paused, his hand in mid-air, and turned his head toward his brother. "What?"

Charlie had not even unbuckled his seatbelt. "I want to be in charge of the money," he clarified. "We have a few hundred in the backpack from our last paychecks, but that won't go very far -- and who knows how long it has to last? You said that Doris's brother gave you some, and then your Chicago contact gave you some -- but you didn't tell me how much. I want it."

Don was amused in spite of the seriousness of the situation. He settled back in his seat, and reached out to drum the steering wheel with the fingers of his left hand. "No," he answered simply.

Charlie's eyes grew comically wide in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

Don suppressed a smile and rotated his head so that he was staring out the front windshield. "I said, 'no'," he repeated.

Charlie sputtered. "But...you've had me handle your accounts ever since the Russian mob almost left you penniless four years ago! _I always handle the money!"_

Don rolled his eyes. "I want your superior encryption skills, Buddy; you just handle my cyber funds -- it's not like you've got me on an allowance. I've been dealing with cash...well, longer than you have!"

Charlie's voice rose in indignation. "_'Cyber funds'_? What the hell are _'cyber funds'_?"

As much as Don was enjoying this, he was starting to get hot in the stuffy vehicle -- and he wanted to get to the warehouse before it got too dark. He wasn't entirely sure there was any electricity -- something he had failed to mention to Charlie. He put his left hand on the door handle again. "Look," he said, glancing at Charlie again, "the last time you were in charge of our money, you almost starved yourself to death. Besides, it's safer to keep our resources split between us. You take care of what's in the pack, and I'll take care of what's in my pocket. Now, let's go." He shoved the door open and climbed outside the car.

Charlie scrambled to unlatch his seatbelt and hopped out of his own side of the vehicle. Then he opened the back door to grab his backpack. "Donny," he protested, "I won't know how much we can spend!"

Don smiled at him over the roof of the car. "Face it, Chuck," he teased. "You're not in control, here."

Charlie huffed and slammed the car door. The pack dangled from one hand as he used the other to cover his mouth -- the huff had turned into a full-fledged hacking cough. His face was turning red with his efforts to breathe. Don sighed, and crossed a few feet of pavement until he could stand next to Charlie and pound him on the back. "That's it," he muttered. "We're adding cough syrup to the list."

* * *

Don stood just inside the rear entrance of the dusty, unused warehouse, hands on his hips. Charlie blinked owlishly beside him. "Is there a light switch?" he asked tentatively.

Don had already noticed one just inside the door, but he vetoed its use. "Leave it off," he instructed his brother. "My contact said he would call his real estate agent and take this place off the market temporarily, so we don't get any unexpected visitors -- but the last thing we need to do is advertise that somebody's in here." He nodded toward the glassed-in office at the other end of the building. "We'll set up the lanterns in there; it's far enough back that no one on the street will see the light." He was interrupted by a sudden roar of noise. He squinted, and waited for it to finish. "No one on the El should notice, either," he added drily.

Charlie grinned for the first time since their argument over money. "No wonder your friend can't sell this place," he said. "The warehouse actually shakes every time a train goes past. I'm surprised they let them build an industrial park this close to the El."

Don shrugged. "It's amazing how land use laws change when available space starts to run out," he answered. He sneezed. "Damn dust..."

Charlie leaned over to pick up a 10-lb. bag of ice from the floor near his feet, coughing as he straightened. "Damn cold," he grumbled. "Better bring in the cooler first, and I'll set up our 'refrigerator'."

Don nodded and pivoted on his heel. "For the record, pneumonia trumps a cold," he remarked, heading toward the door. "I'll bring in the yogurt and some of the water, too."

Charlie sighed; carefully, so that he wouldn't start coughing again. "We spent too much money," he complained.

Don stopped at the door and turned back toward Charlie, who was already a few feet deeper into the warehouse. "We got what we needed," he insisted. "Anyway, my contact owns a string of diners in the area; he said he'll hook me up with a job."

Charlie was too far away for Don to see the surprise on his face. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Stay here; work on the computer and get us the hell out of this mess," Don said. "We've already got the computer; the office is wired for WiFi -- no small feat, in a metal building. My job will support the two of us until you figure everything out."

Charlie rolled his eyes, turning toward the office again. "Oh, good," he groused. "At least there's no pressure."

* * *

.

It was almost midnight when Robin let herself into her office, settled behind her desk, and powered up her laptop.

She had spent most of the evening at the Craftsman with Alan and Amita. Amita had brought a laptop into the house from the garage, so that she could keep an eye on it during dinner. She and Alan had explained to Robin that they had obtained a copy of the case that had started this whole mess (Robin pointedly did not ask how), and had eventually seen the same thing Don had -- several small businesses experiencing tiny amounts of unreported electronic funds transfer fraud. Now, Amita was conducting further searches to find information that would link those businesses to each other. Amita had briefly described her cloaking program, and now Robin wondered if she should have asked for a copy of it for her own computer, before she played her hunch.

She opened her search engine and reassured herself that what she was doing was perfectly reasonable. Six months before, she and all the other Assistant U.S. Attorneys attached to the Central District office, had been required to submit a professional-quality photograph and biographical information to the IT department. The Department of Justice website included a direct link to the Central District's website; some talking head, somewhere, had decided it would be a good idea for the Central District to dress up its web presence. Included in the new site, he had announced, would be a page introducing all of the attorneys working in that office. Personnel were encouraged to view the site often, and provide the IT department with updated information or photos. Even if it became common knowledge that she had logged into the site, it made perfect sense.

She started to navigate her way to the bio page. Her hunch had started quite some time ago, really, but had really started gnawing on her tonight, when she was talking to Alan. "Who could Don be this afraid of?" he had asked plaintively. "It has to be someone pretty high up...but he obviously didn't trust his own team, either."

_Or me_, Robin had thought in response. She murmured something benign and comforting to Alan while half of her brain chewed on that fact. Don had not contacted her directly, although he had asked Amita to relay a message or two -- and that had to be because he didn't think it was safe. Not only did he not trust someone -- or more accurately, _anyone_ -- in the FBI, he was leery of her own office. The obvious reason had to be Audrey Montague. As the wife of the FBI's West Coast Director Jim Montague, she was, at best, suspect. Then there was her sudden friendly interest in Robin; she'd actually asked Ms. Brooks to lunch a few days ago. That level of friendliness between them was unprecedented before Don's disappearance, and it did not sit well with Robin.

Neither Audrey nor Jim was an idiot. Robin sincerely doubted that Amita would hit on anything if she searched for the name "Montague". Ergo, Robin was sitting in her office in the middle of the night, reading Audrey's biography. She wasn't sure what she was looking for...but she had to start somewhere.

* * *

End, Chapter 24


	25. I Love You, Stupid

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 25: I Love You, Stupid**

Alan was a little surprised to find Robin on the porch with a box of doughnuts at seven in the morning. He silently thanked Amita for moving into the house; since she had, he seldom walked around in his boxers, anymore, and never entered the common areas without being fully clothed. "Robin!" he exclaimed. "I expected the paper boy; Charlie usually takes care of paying him. I'm not even sure anymore when money changes hands between those two -- I've been anticipating a protest at any moment."

Robin smiled. "I hope I'm not too early; I wanted to stop by on my way to work."

Alan reached out for the bakery box. "Not at all, dear. Amita and I would love to share whatever you've brought us. Especially me," he winked. "It's my turn to make breakfast."

Robin laughed and followed Alan into the house, carefully shutting the door behind her. As she came into the living room, she spied Amita nearing the bottom of the staircase. "Good morning," she smiled.

Amita returned both the greeting and the smile. "I didn't realize you were coming by this morning, but I'm always happy to see you, Robin. I heard the bell, and thought it might be Larry. Sometimes he stops by early to learn if there's any news."

Robin met her at the bottom of the staircase. "Then I'll get right to it," she said. "If Larry comes by, we won't have to talk in front of him." She winked at Alan, who was pausing in the dining room to look back at the women. "Plus, there are some powdered sugar-covered doughnuts in there with his name all over them."

Alan set the box on the dining room table and walked back toward the stairs. "Have you heard something?" he asked anxiously.

Robin reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and withdrew a slip of paper, which she offered to Amita. "I think you should be looking for a connection to this name."

Alan peered over Amita's shoulder. "_'Mark Vincent'_? Who's that?"

Robin shrugged. "I decided to play a hunch. For a number of reasons we've already discussed, I'm suspicious of Audrey Montague -- and her husband. I looked up her biographical information on the Central District's website, where I found her family's last name, Vincent. There must have been a divorce somewhere along the way, because her own unmarried name was different from her mother's last name. Anyway, I also found the name of her hometown -- Austin, Texas -- and checked the archives of the Austin daily newspaper online, for both names._ 'Vincent'_ got a lot of hits in the late 1990s; Mark Vincent was a standout high school football player. One of the stories was a feature, after he won a full-ride scholarship to Notre Dame. It mentioned his family, including an older sister, Audrey, who was in law school. I found another feature, dated 2002. Mark Vincent was drafted in the first round after he graduated from Notre Dame, by the 49rs. The story mentioned that he was happy about being so close to his sister, who was now an attorney in Las Vegas, especially since their parents had been killed the year before in an automobile accident. Vincent never made it past training camp; he suffered a traumatic head injury during a scrimmage. As of 2002, Mark Vincent was in what the article described as a 'waking coma.' His eyes are open, but he doesn't respond or move."

"Which means," commented Alan, "that Mr. Vincent is in need of a caretaker for his financial and medical needs. Someone must hold a Power of Attorney."

Robin smiled. "Exactly. And since his parents are dead, and he was always close to his sister the attorney -- it's probably Audrey."

Amita clutched the slip of paper in a hand suddenly sweaty. Her eyes shone with excitement and she supplied the next piece of the puzzle. "If the Montagues wanted to hide their involvement in something, but still stay in control, the logical step would be to name Mark Vincent as the owner of record!" She fairly itched to run directly to the garage with her scrap of paper, but she hesitated long enough to reprimand her friend. "Robin, you should have used my cloaking program while you were searching!"

Robin shook her head. "I'm sure it will be fine. The amount of research that's done on our computers in any given day is astronomical. As for the Central District website, _my_ bio is up there, too. I could easily have been there to check my own status; IT encourages us to keep the bios updated frequently."

Alan started to lead the women toward the kitchen. "Still," he reproved mildly, "there was no need for you to take such a risk."

"The computers in the office are fair game," Robin pointed out. "IT is always updating something or installing an upgrade. If a tech found Amita's cloaking program on my laptop; that could be an even bigger risk." Alan made an unhappy murmur, and Robin moved in to drop an arm around his shoulders and squeeze. "Don't worry so much," she counseled. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

* * *

Charlie pushed back a damp tendril of hair and sighed. It might only be 80 degrees outside, but the metal warehouse was not air conditioned. It never had been, apparently; thankfully, whatever business had once occupied the space had left behind a few dusty oscillating fans. Even Don agreed that there was no reason not to take advantage of this, and two of them were aimed at the back of the computer right now. The last thing Charlie needed was for the computer's processor to burn itself out in the 100-degree warehouse.

He pushed back the chair from the desk and stood, intending to take a walk for a few minutes. Don didn't like a lot of coming-and-going from the warehouse; he was concerned about being seen. He had even raised the huge garage door in the middle of that first night and moved the car inside, parking it deep in the rear of the warehouse, out of sight to anyone who happened to glance in the small, grimy window in the man door. His contact had set him up with a job as a dishwasher in a diner just a mile-and-a-half from the warehouse. His shift started at 6 a.m., and he slunk away from the warehouse early, and walked. He had discovered a gospel mission for the homeless along the route, and he could stop there for breakfast and a quick shower. When he was feeling good enough to drag himself out at 4:00 a.m., Charlie would join him. Don had his lunch at the diner -- and conducted a detailed inventory of their food stash in the warehouse every evening, to make sure Charlie was eating his. Most evenings, they would carefully exit their temporary home and go once again to the mission, for dinner. Don tried to think of ways to make sure they were out past dark, so that there was less chance of being seen when they returned. His concern was catching, and Charlie tried to spend the days inside. He hacked away at the computer until it got so hot that his sweaty fingers slipped from the keyboard. Then he would stumble to a cot, turn all three fans toward it, and try to nap through the worst part of the afternoon.

Some days, however -- like today -- Charlie had to risk a trip outside the metal casket. It surprised him a little, considering the building's size, how claustrophobic it could make him feel. He _always_ carried his phone with him; he was _always_ as careful as he could be; and he _never_ told Don. He peered out the little window in the door before he left. The entire industrial park had been abandoned during the current recession; not one warehouse was occupied. The brothers rarely saw anyone -- except, occasionally, someone as homeless as they were -- until they rounded the corner to the front of the building, which faced the street. Don's Chicago contact had provided keys to the warehouse, so Charlie could leave the door locked during his clandestine outings. Today, he turned south. Staying in the shadows of buildings as long as he could, he eventually exited the industrial park onto a lightly traveled side road that led to even more warehouses. More were empty than occupied, Charlie noticed.

He was passing one of the vacant warehouses when the phone clipped to the waistband of his jeans rang, startling him almost senseless. _Oh, shit_, he thought, glancing wildly around, _Don knows I'm out here!_ He snatched at the phone and turned into the parking lot of the vacant warehouse. It was one of the nicer buildings on the street, and slightly elevated from its parking lot. Concrete steps led to a street-front office, and Charlie sank onto the bottom step as he checked the caller ID display. Automatically, he smiled broadly when he saw Amita's name, but he was frowning by the time he flipped open the phone and brought it to his ear. "Is something wrong?" he asked anxiously.  
A train chose that moment to rattle past on the El, now about a quarter-of-a-mile away, and he missed part of Amita's response. "What?" he asked, raising his voice over the sound of the train.

"I said, _'I'm fine'_," Amita repeated, sounding a little anxious herself. "Where are you? What is that? Are you all right?"

Charlie smiled again as the noise of the El faded into the distance. "I'm okay," he answered. "I'm sorry I haven't called. We had some...difficulty, and Don just got around to putting some more minutes on the phones last night. I was going to call later this evening."

Amita's anxiety crept up a level, and her voice actually squeaked a little as she questioned him. "Difficulty? What happened? Are you sure you're all right?"

"We're fine, now," Charlie insisted. "Some men came looking for us at the campground, and we had to leave." He grimaced. "I guess you were right about the need for a cloaking program; I'd been using a computer for several days before you posted the link, so I thought it was safe. I'm sorry," he said contritely.

"Good Lord, Charlie," Amita gasped. "You're using it now, aren't you?"

Charlie nodded into the phone. "Yes; I started using it as soon as I downloaded it. They won't be able to find us again -- you did a great job designing that application, sweetheart. I looked at the code, and it's very impressive."

Amita huffed lightly. "Flattery will not absolve you from idiocy."

He chuckled. "How's the weather? I miss Southern California. I mean, it's certainly warm here, but it's not the same."

Amita sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that you're getting farther away instead of closer?" she remarked sadly.

"I think I'm making progress," Charlie soothed. "We think we know who at least one of the bad guys is." His voice changed, reflecting a change in his mood. "Amita, you're not talking to anybody besides Dad and Robin, right?"

Her heart nearly stopped. "You asked me not to," she hedged. "But now that you mention it, Robin was here before work. She thinks we should look for a _'Mark Vincent'_ connection."

Charlie was sufficiently distracted from his original question. "How did she hit on that name?"

"He's Audrey Montague's brother; Robin did some of her own sleuthing, and found out that he's been in a coma for almost nine years -- football injury. She found a newspaper story that said the parents had died in an automobile accident a year earlier; Audrey must be taking care of her brother. Alan pointed out that could include Power of Attorney. If Jim Montague is somehow connected to this fraud, using Vincent's name might be a way to keep his and Audrey's names out of it."

Charlie whistled lowly. "That's a good lead," he finally said. "But I'm starting to think the three of you should just back off this investigation. There's nobody to watch your backs; Don and I can handle this. I shouldn't have let you get as involved as you are."

"Oh, Charlie," Amita answered impatiently. "Don't you understand, yet? Whatever happens to you happens to me. _I love you_, stupid."

Charlie smiled even while an unwelcome thought entered his head. The afternoon train was usually his alarm clock; it meant that Don would be back, soon. He stood up, distressed. "He's going to find out!" he yelped into the phone.

Now Amita's voice was worried. "Who? What? What's happening?"

Charlie started jogging toward the street. "Nothing, nothing; calm down, it's nothing. Don just doesn't like it when I...listen, I've gotta go. Thank Robin for me -- and you guys _be careful!_"

"Charlie?" Amita was clearly still concerned.

He forced himself to slow to a standstill. "Baby, everything's okay, honestly. I just...promised Don I would do something, and I haven't yet, and he's due back any minute." He forced a laugh. "You know I hate pissing Don off -- especially when he's my roomie."

Amita's worry backed down a notch but was obviously still present. "You're such a wuss," she said, attempting levity, if only for Charlie's sake.

To her relief, he laughed heartily. "I promise, when we're married, I won't do anything you say," he responded.

He could hear the smile enter Amita's voice. "That would be incorrect, Professor," she protested. "You will merely transfer your allegiance from your brother to your wife."

Charlie chuckled again. "Whatever you say, Ma'am."

* * *

Phillip Wright sat on one side of the conference table in his office. Amita sat on the other. Wright was frowning; Amita looked worried. "Their location was discovered?" he clarified. "That is indeed not good news."

Amita nodded. "Charlie said they had to leave, and mentioned that it was warm where they were – which could be anywhere – it _is_ summer. There was a loud noise in the background for a few seconds; I thought about it later, and I'm sure it was an El train. I spent one summer in Chicago when I was an undergraduate; I was taking a seminar at Columbia. I lived off-campus, very near an El stop. I must have heard those trains a dozen times every day for three months!"

Wright exhaled, and drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. "We could find out for sure, if you gave us their cell phone numbers. We could trace the GPS chips."

The idea made Amita's blood run cold. "I...don't think I can do that," she whispered miserably. "It's bad enough that I've trusted you as much as I have; Charlie _begged_ me not to talk to anyone in the FBI."

Wright stood, controlling his temper with a concerted effort. "I understand that," he finally said, walking to his desk and pushing a button on his phone. A tinny voice soon responded, and he barked into the intercom. "Jeanne," he instructed his secretary, "find Colby Granger and ask him to report to my office."

"Right away, sir," the secretary assured him.

Amita was also standing when Wright turned back around. He leaned on his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sending Granger to Chicago," he announced. "I'll make the reservations myself, with my personal credit card; the Bureau can reimburse me when this is all over."

Amita regarded him a tad fearfully. "What can Colby do there without any GPS information?"

Wright raised an eyebrow. "It's my sincere hope that you will reconsider your stance in the next few hours," he stated plainly. "If not, Granger will simply have to use other means of locating the Eppes. Don and Charlie are in danger; running, alone. You wouldn't have come here today if you didn't feel it in your gut, just like I do: Don and Charlie need help."

* * *

End Chapter 25


	26. It's Your Move

**A/N: Abn extra offering for all the loyal fans who shiver in icy, snowy darkness: some Hot Eppes**

* * *

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 26: It's Your Move**

Derek Mace reclined his seatback and stretched his long legs out in front of him; something he never could have done if he had been stuck on a commercial flight. He crossed his feet at the ankles and sighed, smiling over the rim of his highball at Jackie Carotta. "This is the _only_ way to fly," he proclaimed. "Working for Tuttle has its share of perks, but LearJet travel is right up there at the top."

Carotta merely grunted, and continued looking out the window. Lew Spisak, the third member of the group which had failed during its Idaho mission, spoke from his seat next to Mace. "No argument from me. That Nardek…he's a funny little geek, but he sure as hell knows what he's doing, don't he?"

Mace drained his highball and lowered the glass, nodding. "All that techno mumbo jumbo gives me a headache – but he sure saved our asses this time. Tracing the GPS on that computer from the serial number on the manual we found was genius."

Carotta finally joined the conversation. "No screw-ups this time. Tuttle's man in Chicago is meetin' us at the airport. Tuttle wants us to go at these guys at least two-on-one. They fought their way out back in the professor's office, and they gave us the slip in Idaho. Tuttle ain't gonna take too kindly to another miss. We destroy the computer, take care of the Eppes brothers, and get rid of the bodies."

Spisak squirmed. "Can't say I'm really looking forward to that part," he admitted. "Why can't we just dump them somewhere?"

Carotta turned a steely eye toward him. "Tuttle don't want any evidence. You can't handle the job, you let me know now."

Spisak reddened slightly and dropped his gaze to his lap. "I can do it," he insisted. He glanced sideways at Mace. "You ever cut anybody up before, Derek?"

Mace signaled the flight attendant for another highball. "Hell, Lew," he answered. "Why d'ya think I'm drinkin'?"

* * *

Colby felt his phone vibrate just as he was joining the boarding line. He fed his boarding pass into the turnstile with one hand and flipped open the phone with the other. "Granger," he answered brusquely. "Better make it fast; I'm just getting on the plane." He veered toward the side of the boarding ramp and waited for a response.

"I'm at the Eppes house," Phillip Wright answered. "Amita has decided to give me Charlie's cell phone number."

Colby smiled. "That's great…cuz honestly, I had no idea how I was going to find two needles in a Chicago haystack."

Wright chuckled. "I don't doubt for a moment that you would have thought of something, Agent Granger. Listen, I'm taking this straight to Renton. We should have something by the time you pick up the rental car. Call my cell, and I'll have Pat download the location to the car's GPS."

"Got it," answered Colby. "Listen; tell Amita she's doing the right thing."

Wright sighed. "I'm trying to. I'm having some difficulty; I can't seem to get her to stop crying. She's sitting behind a computer, but I have no idea how she can see anything. I'm quite uncomfortable with a female's tears; ask my wife."

Colby grinned. "I don't doubt for a moment that you'll think of something, Assistant Director."

* * *

Charlie felt a tiny leap of hope in the vicinity of his chest. Intellectually, he understood that the heart was a muscle designed for the pumping of blood; emotions actually originated in the prefrontal cortex; more specifically, the amygdala. Nevertheless, like most people, Charlie felt things at a lower location. Depression made his heart "sink"; joy caused his heart to "leap". It was completely unscientific, and, in fact, had been a source of embarrassment and confusion for years – maybe there was a mathematical explanation that he could turn into his next book -- but there you have it.

When he saw Mark Vincent's name, his heart prepared for take-off.

He forced himself to slow his breathing. _Mark Vincent_ was not a very uncommon name; this was not necessarily a tie to Audrey Montague. Once he had uncovered the deeply buried _Vincent_ page in the Illusion Corporation's files, he backtracked to the Dominican Republic registry, where, after another 15 minutes of dedicated digging, he located Vincent's address of record: a post office box in Los Angeles. Next, he again hit the offshore bank that held Illusion's accounts. Successfully circumventing the security firewall so easily that it occurred to him, not for the first time, that he would probably make a decent criminal, Charlie was quickly able to determine that Vincent was indeed listed as one of the owners of the Illusion accounts. His heart rate increased again when he noticed that there was a direct link to Vincent's other accounts; it looked as if the money Illusion was siphoning from its own businesses was being fed directly into one of several accounts owned solely by Mark Vincent. Charlie recognized several of the deposits as matches, both in timeframe and dollar amount, to the small frauds that had first caught Don's eye. Vincent was worth several million dollars.

Charlie scribbled down Mark Vincent's social security number before he backed quietly out of the bank's system. If they could prove that this Mark Vincent was indeed Audrey's brother, they had their link to the Montagues. It would be easy enough for Robin, in her official capacity, to obtain that. Charlie chewed on his bottom lip, undecided. Don would kill him for getting her involved…but wasn't she involved already? She had supplied Vincent's name in the first place. Still, maybe he should wait until Don came back this afternoon, and let his brother make the decision.

He powered down the computer and stood, tucking a sweaty strand of curly hair behind his ear. That feeling he always got, when the solution to a problem was in sight, was ricocheting around his entire torso by now. Once they proved Audrey Montague was making a comatose brother, over which she held P of A, richer than God, they would have enough to show someone like Bob Tompkins. The Montagues and Tuttle could be put on ice while an official investigation was conducted.

Mixed with Charlie's sense of excitement was a nearly overwhelming feeling of relief. Nothing he had found so far indicated that anyone else in the FBI was involved. Don could safely return to his work. They could both return to their lovers, their father, their lives.

Charlie became so engrossed in imagining his reunion with Amita, that he didn't hear anything, when two vehicles rolled to a stop just outside the warehouse door.

* * *

Audrey Montague sat behind her oak desk in her office in the justice building, the hand clutching the cell phone shaking almost imperceptibly.

The fact that it had rung at all had nearly been her undoing. It was her secure cell; only a few people had this number – and none of them ever called with good news. Today had been no exception. Tuttle had just informed her that Nardek had been picking up untraceable _pings_ into Mark Vincent's Illusion Corporation page. Someone had made the ultimate connection, and was mining for gold. Everett warned her – almost gleefully -- that if it was Charlie Eppes, it would only be a matter of time before the whole thing blew up in their faces.

She had begged him to pull the plug. Only _she_ held Mark's Power of Attorney and could access the millions in his accounts. It was time for the two of them to disappear, she insisted. Jim would be a sacrificial offering when the authorities came calling – and she actually felt a little bad about that. After all, they had been married almost 15 years. He had been a comfort when her parents were killed, and he had stood by her after Mark's injury. In fact, he had introduced her to Tuttle, and convinced her to involve herself (and Mark) in Illusion Corporation. He might be boring as hell in bed, and had proven to be sterile in more ways than one, but he had still done well by her.

Still, if she had to choose who she was going to share Mark's wealth and her best years with, J. Everett Tuttle won by a landslide.

He had called her an "irrational bitch", though, and urged her to calm down. "My team is already in place in Chicago," he informed her. "They're on their way to the Eppes brothers now. Thanks to your husband's involvement in our little scheme, Don Eppes has been afraid to tell anybody else what he's got. He's on the run from the FBI as much as he is from me. When he and his brother disappear, our problems disappear. There are millions more to be made."

Eventually he had ended the call, telling her he had a call coming in from Mace, and warning her again to keep her head level. Sitting alone behind her massive desk, though, Audrey shivered. Unwelcome thoughts began to enter her mind.

Perhaps she shouldn't share the wealth with either of them.

She could disappear herself, access the rest of Mark's money and move it to another, separate account…in fact, she could even use part of it to set up a trust to take care of her brother for a few more years; surely, he wouldn't live much longer than that, anyway. If she didn't move on the funds still remaining in the U.S. when he was still alive, the whole point of Illusion Corporation would be moot.

Tuttle was just too greedy. He was greedy in bed. He was a greedy eater, ordering only the best of everything, and never sharing. He was arrogant, and pushing not only his own luck, but hers, as well.

Yes…it might be time to cut everybody lose.

* * *

Colby, following the directions being fed to him audibly by the lady who lived in the GPS, nearly turned into the industrial park before he saw the dark sedans parked in the shadow of one of the warehouses. He made an abrupt left turn instead, down the street where Charlie liked to take his secret walks. "You have gone off-course!" his invisible wife shouted as he turned into one of the other vacant warehouse lots. "You are off-course! Please turn left, now!"

Colby jabbed the "off" button on the GPS. "Shut the hell up," he muttered. He drove slowly through the parking lot, making a u-turn at the end, and easing the rented vehicle into position near the corner of the building. He let the car idle for a moment as he regarded the vehicles outside the warehouse that contained, at the very least, the prepaid cell Charlie had been using. Hopefully, it contained Charlie and Don, as well. The first one, a dark-green sedan, was a late-model 300M; definitely not a Crown Vic, and the second, a 2003 black Cadillac sedan. Of course, it was entirely possible, even probable, that Don had gotten his hands on a different car, by now. Colby just didn't think he would have chosen one of _those_ cars. They looked like something a fed – or a crook – would drive.

It was undeniable; his gut told him something was hinky. One thing Colby had learned, after all these years, was to trust his gut.

Slowly he turned the key in the ignition to shut off the engine. Then he slumped in the seat a little, and settled down to wait.

* * *

End, Chapter 26


	27. Decisions, Decisions

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 27: Decisions, Decisions**

Jackie Carotta glanced at the warehouse, then leaned over the driver's side of the sedan next to him and spoke into the window to the driver, one of Tuttle's men who had met them in Chicago. "Okay, Cal, stay put here, and keep a lookout. You saw their pictures; if you see either of the Eppes heading for the warehouse, get me on my cell phone – we'll surprise 'em when they come in."

Cal nodded, and Jackie jerked his head at Lew Spisak and Tuttle's other Chicago-based man, an albino that Cal called Fitz. Even though the man wore colored contacts to hide his red irises, Jackie couldn't look him in the eye directly – the man gave him the creeps. That dead white skin, his expressionless face and white hair – _Makes him look like a freakin' zombie_, thought Jackie. "Come on, let's head in," he said, and they glanced around to make sure there was no one watching, and made their way over to the man door of the warehouse. Fitz pulled out a set of lock picks, and in moments, they were through the door.

* * *

Charlie stared at his computer screen and drummed his fingers impatiently. Everything tied together – beginning with the funneling of the money from the small businesses through Tuttle's Illusion Corp., into an account in Mark Vincent's name. From there, regular withdrawals transferred money – again in modest amounts, too small to warrant attention by the authorities, into an offshore account that also belonged to Mark Vincent. It wasn't apparent yet how Tuttle was being paid, but the fact that his Illusion Corp. was being used to launder the wire fraud amounts tied him in to the scheme. Many small transactions – the fact that they were small kept them under the radar, but the fact that there were many, and over a long period of time, made the results lucrative.

They knew the players now - Audrey and Jim Montague, in cahoots with J. Everett Tuttle. Of course, they would still have to prove that Mark Vincent was Audrey's brother, but that would be easy enough for the authorities to do. They could be reasonably certain that no one else was involved, including Charlie's friend Bob Tompkins, head of the NSA. Charlie had had his doubts when he'd tried to call Bob days ago – it seemed weeks ago – and Tompkins' secretary had told him that Tompkins was on the line with Montague. Charlie was certain now that call was coincidence; it made sense that a regional head of the FBI like Montague would have the occasion to interface with the NSA for legitimate reasons. Just to be safe, though, Charlie had decided that they should give their information to some others, also– maybe LAPD, maybe some additional contacts in the NSA. The more people who knew; the less chance that anyone could try to cover it up. He would talk it over with Don – where was his brother, anyway? They'd cracked the case, and he had no one to tell. Of all the days for Don to be running late…

He hated to tell anyone before his brother, but he was too excited to wait any longer – and surely, Don would understand if he told Amita, after all her help. Charlie pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. "Amita!" he exclaimed, as soon as she answered.

"Charlie?" She was surprised to get more than one call in a day, and it showed in her voice. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah – listen – I had to tell you." Charlie tried to keep his voice level, but the excitement made his words tumble out precipitously. "The lead you gave me was it – I connected the Mark Vincent account to the offshore account, and to Illusion Corp. Mark Vincent owns the offshore account – I'm not sure yet how the Montagues and Tuttle are being paid out of that, but a detailed investigation should turn it up. Robin's lead was the missing link – we've done it – we've solved it, thanks to the two of you. This is almost over – as soon as I go over this with Don, I'm going to call a contact in the NSA, and start an official investigation; maybe get LAPD, even Robin and the DOJ involved. Once the authorities have this information, the threat will be gone – we can come home."

There was no response, and the excited grin slipped from Charlie's face. "Amita?"

"I'm here." Her voice wavered, and she sniffed. "I'm sorry – I don't mean to cry. It's just – I'm so relieved, this has been such an ordeal, I was so worried -,"

Charlie broke in gently. "It's okay, I know – I feel the same way. Look, don't tell anyone yet, okay?"

Her voice was soft, and sounded strange, reluctant. "Okay, I won't."

Charlie continued quickly, not noticing her tone. "I should have waited until I talked to Don, but I was too excited – I had to tell you. He'll be back soon, and after we talk to the NSA we'll have some direction on who we can contact safely. In the meantime, just keep it quiet – oh – listen, I think I just heard Don. I have to go – I'll talk to you soon. Love you."

He disconnected hurriedly – barely catching her returned, "Love you, too." A grin crept back to his face as he strode toward the small office door, which opened out into the warehouse – he could not wait to tell Don; this was almost over. His grin disappeared abruptly as he opened the door. Three figures were slowly moving into the dimness of the warehouse; Charlie could see them outlined against the faint light that came from a small window near the man door. His heart lurched painfully – they had to be Tuttle's men – how had they found them? He shut the office door again quickly, but a sharp voice outside let him know that they'd seen him, or at least had seen the light from the office spilling out into the darkened warehouse.

The office door had a lock. Don's contact had given them two sets keys for all the doors in the building, and Charlie had thrown his set on the desk when he came back in from his walk. He'd locked the man door to the warehouse, he was sure of it, but the men must have broken in, somehow. He fumbled with the keys, his heart pounding, and managed to jam the right one into the office door handle and lock it, a split second before it rattled, grasped from the other side. He prayed that the lock would hold until Don got there.

"Oh, God," he whispered, frozen by a sudden thought. Don was late – what if they'd already gotten to him? The door rattled again behind him, and it jolted him back into reality – he couldn't count on Don – think, think, what should he do?

The first thing, he realized, was to destroy the evidence of his work. Thank God, he'd let Amita know what he'd found – even if they killed him, at least someone would be able to take the plot to the authorities. His gaze darted wildly around the room, and he jumped as a loud bang sounded behind him – someone kicking the door, viciously. He didn't have much time…

He darted across the room and grabbed a bottle of window cleaner, and then pulled the flash drive from his computer, and considered it briefly. It held all the details of the case, and would be a little extra insurance if he could find a place to hide it – there – there was an opening under the baseboard. Charlie jammed the flash drive underneath the baseboard and pushed until it was out of sight, wedging it under the sheetrock that formed the interior wall of the office. Then he quickly unscrewed the top of the window cleaner, and poured it over the keyboard of the laptop. It was still running, and as the fluid made contact with live circuitry, the computer began to buzz and the liquid seeping around the keys started to fizzle, the noise growing louder as more liquid intruded. Charlie winced. "Sorry Harry," he whispered. "If I get out of this, I'll buy you a new one."

He barely had time to get the words out of his mouth, when the office door flew open with a bang. Charlie reacted, but only got a chance to turn halfway and fling the bottle of window cleaner at the men before they were on him. Two of them grabbed his arms, and he writhed and kicked wildly, landing a foot in one attacker's gut. The man grunted and doubled over briefly, but managed to straighten and respond in kind – he sent a meaty fist into Charlie's unprotected stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of Charlie, stunning him for a moment, and the thug took advantage of that to send a roundhouse punch to Charlie's jaw. Charlie's head snapped back; he saw stars and sagged in his captors' arms as his vision dimmed. He apparently lost a few seconds; by the time his full consciousness returned, he found himself on the floor with his hands tied behind him. His captors pulled him to his feet, and he swayed, groggily.

"Where's your brother?" said one of the men, a strangely pale man with white hair, and Charlie's heart leapt with hope. So they didn't have Don, Don was still safe…

His head and jaw ached, his stomach hurt, and Charlie's words came out in a rasp of pain. "I don't know."

That earned him a sharp slap that set his head to ringing again. "Don't lie to us. Where is he?"

Charlie swallowed and clenched his teeth to keep from crying out, and jutted out his jaw stubbornly. "I don't know. He left town."

The white-haired man pulled his hand back for another blow, but one of the other men said, "Forget that now, Fitz. Lew, you and Fitz take him to Mace, work on him there. Cal and I will stay here and wait for his brother. When you get out to the cars, tell Cal to park his vehicle out of sight and come inside."

The other man, Lew, grunted in affirmation. "Yeah, okay, Jackie." Charlie tried to listen, tried to keep track of the names in case he got out of this. It would help if he could give the police names…

He was wobbly on his feet – his head was still spinning from the blows, and he had to concentrate. That one was Lew, the man giving the commands was Jackie…they were forcing him out through the office door now, through the warehouse, Lew and the odd-looking white-haired man… what did they call him? Fitz… They were approaching the man door of the warehouse, to the outside, and it suddenly occurred to what was left of Charlie's senses that he couldn't let them take him anywhere; Don would never find him. If they left with him, his life would be as good as over. With a surge of panic and mounting despair, he suddenly pushed against Lew, making him stagger, and tried to pull free. With his hands tied behind his back he was no match for the two larger men; however, Fitz gave him a vicious yank and a blow to his kidney that brought Charlie to his knees, gasping for air. His captors tightened their grasps and yanked him to his feet, and dragged him, reeling, outside.

* * *

Amita sat staring at her cell phone, thinking over her conversation with Charlie, and wiped away a remaining tear. She was shaking – she wasn't certain why; from relief, perhaps. Somehow, though, she now felt more frightened than she had since Charlie had disappeared. It was because this was it; they were so close to it all being resolved, she told herself. They were almost through this, and suddenly, she couldn't wait for it to end. She was tired of worrying; tired of lying – she was immersed in guilt for letting Wright have Charlie's prepaid cell phone number, even though she knew Colby's presence in Chicago would only make Charlie and Don safer. In spite of Charlie's admonition for her to stay quiet, that he and Don would make the proper calls, she had lied to him once more when she agreed to say nothing. She knew what she had to do – she had to do what she'd been doing all along – she had to tell Wright.

"He'll take care of the Montagues and Tuttle," she told herself. "Charlie's friends in the NSA can help with the investigation, but it will be best to get Montague and Tuttle in custody, and Wright can do that faster than someone in Washington." For some reason 'faster' suddenly seemed absolutely necessary – the faster the better. She pulled up Wright's number on her cell phone, took a deep breath, and dialed.

* * *

Colby glanced at his watch. It was nearly six p.m., Chicago time, and the heat of the summer day was starting to dissipate a little. Not enough to turn off his car and shut off the air conditioning, but at least it was now in the nineties. He shifted in the seat of his rental vehicle, trying to decide what to do. He was having a hard time figuring out the two vehicles outside the warehouse, and what they meant. Did one belong to Don and Charlie? If not, where was their car, and who owned the other vehicles? Amita had given them Charlie's prepaid cell phone number; Colby thought about calling it, but he didn't want to cause a problem. The Eppes men could be meeting with someone as part of their work on the case – a phone call in the middle of a sensitive meeting might screw something up. Although, he said to himself, who in the heck would they be meeting with, in Chicago? The more Colby thought about it, the less he liked the possibilities. He had just made up his mind to go and quietly check out the situation, when the door to the warehouse opened, and three men emerged, one of whom he knew; Charlie – and it looked as though he was injured, and the two men were helping him walk, supporting him. No, not supporting him, Colby realized suddenly – they were dragging him along, forcing him toward the two vehicles.

"Shit!" As he watched, he switched off the ignition and got out of his vehicle, but at nearly a block away, he was too far – they were already pushing Charlie into one of the cars – the 300M. A third man got out of the other car – he'd been sitting there all along, but the way the car was facing, Colby hadn't even seen him. The third man spoke to one of the men, then got back in and pulled his car – the Caddy – around the corner, out of sight. Colby turned to get back into his rental – the only way he'd catch them now was to give chase by car, when a sight stopped him with his car door open, one foot in the vehicle.

Don was walking toward him, coming down a side road. His hair was longer and he was wearing a beard, but Colby recognized him instantly. Don's head was up and he was scanning his surroundings, but he hadn't seen Colby yet. The men with Charlie were around the corner from Don and couldn't see him, but Colby could. He glanced back down toward the warehouse in time to see the car containing Charlie and his two captors turn sharply out of the warehouse parking lot, and head down the road, away from them. At almost the same time, the man who had been sitting in the Cadillac appeared from around the corner of the warehouse, where he'd apparently hidden the car, and headed for the warehouse door. If Colby followed Charlie's vehicle, he would have to do it now or lose sight of them. He wouldn't have a chance to warn Don, and more than likely Don would enter the warehouse and walk straight into a trap. Colby could only save one of them. He wavered for a split second, his mind spinning furiously; then made his choice.

* * *

End Chapter 27

* * *

_FC A/N: That was a Serialgal chapter. Damn, that was exciting. Colby's Choice...I can see the movie..._


	28. Who Ya Gonna Call?

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 28: Trust Issues**

Robin Brooks glanced at the phone in her office, and her forehead puckered slightly as she read the display. A.D. Wright – why would he be calling her at a little after three in the afternoon – and at her office, no less? She took a breath and picked up the phone. "Phillip. What a nice surprise."

Wright's voice sounded tight. "_Robin. I have a matter that I need to discuss with you. Is your phone secure?"_

She lowered her voice. "Yes. Your man came this morning as usual and swept my entire office. I've been in it since he left. What's up?"

"_I just got a phone call from Amita. Charlie confirmed it – Mark Vincent's accounts are the ones that have been receiving fund transfers from Illusion, Corp., and those accounts have been regularly sending deposits to an offshore account, also in Vincent's name. It's the link we've been looking for. It's time to reel this in – take Tuttle and the Montagues into custody while we work out the details. I'm having warrants drawn up now. Is Audrey Montague in the office today?"_

"I think so. I saw her by the coffee machine when I came in – I imagine she's still here."

"_Okay, look, do us a favor and check to be sure, and if she is, keep an eye on her. Call me if she leaves her office. It'll take a little while to get the warrants – especially the papers for the Montagues. We'll need to go through a federal judge, and he's going to want a good explanation before he issues warrants for the Regional Director of the FBI and a prosecutor at the DOJ. I know it's getting toward the end of the day – do you know when she usually leaves?"_

"Ordinarily, she works late when she's working a case, and I think she has one now. Look, Phillip, I'm running some checks on birth records for Audrey. I pulled up her marriage certificate from the Clerk of Courts – she and Jim Montague were married right here in L.A. Her maiden name isn't listed as Vincent, it's Paris, but it doesn't mean she isn't related to Mark. I'm still checking."

"_That's good. If you get something, call my cell phone – that would be a good piece of information to have when we go to the judge for the warrants_."

"All right. I'll go check on her now. I'll call you right back if she's not still here." Robin set the phone down with a click, a little jolt of excitement running through her. She always got that feeling when a case was coming together, and it was magnified by the fact that this particular case just happened to involve her significant other. She smiled, and opened her desk drawer for a brief glimpse of Don's picture, tucked out of sight, but always right there. She didn't like to advertise the fact that they were dating – sometimes they had to work together. There were those in her office who knew, including her own superiors, but she figured for the rest of her co-workers, her private life was on a need-to-know basis, and they didn't need to know. It wasn't as if she and Don were married, after all…

Don's dark eyes looked out of the picture at her, smiling, crinkling at the corners in a way that always set her heart singing, and she firmly shut the drawer and stood. Time to check on Audrey Montague, and put her, her husband, and Tuttle away for good. Time to bring her man home, where he belonged, so she could look into those warm dark eyes in person. She had a slight smile on her face as she strode down the hallway, toward Audrey Montague's office.

* * *

"Remember that check you asked me to do?" said Nardek over his shoulder, frowning at his computer. "The check on who was pinging Audrey's records?"

Tuttle's cell phone vibrated and he reach for it. "Oh yes, that. Whining bitch wouldn't let it alone – I told her it was probably nothing."

"Yeah, well, she may have been right. The search was initiated right out of the DOJ. I just got an email from a contact who can get past the firewall. He looked it up for me – the hits were coming from Robin Brooks' computer."

Tuttle had flipped his phone open, and was about to speak into it when he stopped himself. "Hold on," he said, into the receiver. He stared Nardek. "How sure is he?"

"Oh, he's sure. It's her all right."

"Damn," Tuttle swore softly. He spoke into the phone. "Yeah, Jackie, I'm here." There was a brief pause, and Nardek watched as an elated smile came over Tuttle's face. "Good. You're taking him to Mace? Tell Mace his first priority is to get the professor to tell us how much he knows, and more importantly, how much the law knows. Did you get his computer?" Tuttle's face fell, and he glanced at Nardek and shook his head. "Never mind – he'll talk – the little bastard. Make him tell you. That's the first priority – the second is to get him to tell you where his brother is. Okay. Have Mace call me as soon as he gets anything."

He disconnected. "Our men have Charlie Eppes. They haven't found Don yet, but they can get his whereabouts from the professor." He stood still for a moment, thinking, and Nardek could almost see the tension radiating from his body in waves. "This is too close," said Tuttle. "Too close. Don Eppes must have Robin Brooks working the case from this end – makes sense now that I think about it – he'd want a contact back here." He pursed his lips. "We have another one to take care of, that's all." He hit speed dial on his cell phone. "Audrey. Audrey, listen to me – you were right, babe, about the hits on your computer. It was Brooks – she's in on it." He glanced at Nardek, stepped out of the computer room into the hallway, and Ralph Nardek could hear no more.

* * *

Don Eppes glanced sideways down the alley as he passed it, but not quickly enough. He caught a glimpse of movement, then a powerful arm grabbed the back of his collar, and suddenly he was being yanked off the street into the alley. He struggled, but his assailant had the advantage and his struggles only caused him to lose his feet, and he was dragged bodily into the alley out of sight. He reached over his head and grasped at the man's arm, wishing mightily that he had his service weapon on him, but as part of the kitchen staff of the diner where he worked, he wore nothing but T-shirts and jeans, and there was nowhere to hide a piece. He had it stashed his gun at the warehouse, out of sight – a fat lot of good it was doing him now. The man stopped dragging him, and Don managed to scissor his feet underneath him and use his crossed legs to twist his body – hard. It worked; the man lost his grip, and Don landed solidly on his side with a grunt of pain. He ignored it, immediately scrambling to his feet to face his attacker, and got a good look.

"Sorry, Don," said Colby, managing to look both wary and apologetic. "I needed to get you off the street. The guys who are looking for you are in the neighborhood."

Don gaped at him, temporarily rendered speechless, then scowled and glanced over his shoulder, checking the street; or what he could see of it from the alley. His first reaction was relief – it felt good to see the face of a friend, but he squelched the feeling immediately. He still didn't know who was friend and who was foe – and the fact that Colby Granger was here, in Chicago, was innately suspicious. Not to mention that Colby had already given Don cause to have trust issues, when it came to the junior agent. Colby's little stint as a double agent had taken care of that. "How did you find us?"

Colby shrugged, his eyes on Don, studying him. "It wasn't too hard. Amita gave us Charlie's prepaid cell phone number."

Don's heart dropped. He couldn't imagine Amita giving them up, unless it was under duress – and Colby had said '_us_.' Who was he working for? Sudden fury surged through Don and he lunged forward and grabbed Colby's shirt at the neck. "What did you do to her? Who's 'us'?"

It was Colby's turn to gape at him, and he involuntarily stepped back, trying to loosen the grip at his neck. "Nothing – 'us' is me and Wright – that's it – no one else. When you and Charlie disappeared, our team picked up the case, but Montague made us drop it. Wright and I have been working it ourselves, under the radar. Wright's okay, Don, honest, and we didn't do anything to Amita – you can call her right now, if you want to check."

His hands were up, his expression earnest, and Don reluctantly released his grip, but his eyes were still wary. "Why did she tell you? Why are you here?"

"Wright talked her into it," said Colby, swallowing and adjusting his collar. "He wanted me out here to help."

Don's face darkened like a thundercloud. "Let me get this straight. You mean she voluntarily told you, after Charlie specifically asked her not to?"

Colby looked uncomfortable, and he shot a nervous glance toward the street that made Don look over his shoulder again. He wanted to trust Colby, but they had to be careful – and Colby had lied to him before....

Colby shook his head and spoke urgently. "Look, Don, we can talk about all that later – we have an issue to deal with here. They have Charlie."

Don felt the blood drain from his face. "Who? What – who has Charlie?"

Colby had a look of true concern in his eyes – either he was telling the truth, or he was one hell of an actor. "When I got here, I saw two cars parked outside the warehouse, and neither one of them was a Crown Vic. I wasn't sure if you'd ditched it for another vehicle, and if so, who the other car might belong to. I sat for a few minutes and just watched – if you were meeting with someone I didn't want to mess anything up. I was parked about a block away, and I had just decided to go check things out when two men came out of the warehouse with Charlie – they forced him into one of the vehicles – a dark green 300M. I was too far away to get to them in time on foot, and just then I saw you coming – wait, Don, wait a minute, hold up! Where are you going?"

"To find Charlie." Don had turned away, and was starting to head down the alley, his heart pounding in his chest. The fear was so overwhelming, he could scarcely think straight. They had Charlie, they had Charlie…

Colby's hand was on his arm now, pulling at him, turning him around. "Wait, Don. I thought this over. There are still at least a couple of guys in that warehouse, obviously waiting for you. We only have one way to find Charlie – we need to wait them out, and when they leave, follow them – they should take us to where he is."

Don shook his vehemently. "No way. We're going in there and making them talk."

Colby shook his head. "You need to think this through. As long as you're out on the street, there's a chance they'll keep him alive – use him to get to you. We don't know how many are in there. If you went in there and got yourself killed or captured, they'd kill him for sure. And even if we overpowered them, what guarantee do we have that they'd talk, or that we'd even be able to take them alive? We need to wait."

Don's shoulders slumped. Colby was right – waiting and following the men was the best option, and the fact that he was taking this stand proved that he was probably on their side. If he weren't, he would have allowed Don to enter the warehouse; walk unsuspecting right into the hands of Tuttle's men. The thought of waiting, though, when Charlie was in danger, was unbearable. "I don't know if I can," he said quietly, but there was miserable acceptance in his voice, and he saw Colby relax a bit.

"I know," said Colby quietly. "I don't like it either, but it's our only choice. C'mon – we'll go sit in my car. They pulled their car around the corner. I need to move mine to a spot around the block, so we can see them when they leave."

Don swallowed and nodded, just once, and followed Colby out of the alley, his footsteps leaden, with a heart to match.

* * *

Audrey clutched the phone to her ear, her knuckles white. "I told you we should just pull the plug, and leave."

"_Settle down_," came Tuttle's voice. "_We can handle this. I've had my contact checking – there is still no official investigation on this. We'll just need to take care of Brooks along with the Eppes boys, that's all. I need you to find a reason to keep her there late tonight. I'll send a couple of men over after hours and take care of it_."

Audrey's voice was doubtful. "We'll need to get them in past security – everyone has to enter through the main lobby after hours, and there are security cameras everywhere."

Tuttle spoke impatiently. "_We'll figure it out. Just relax – we've got the professor, and soon we'll have Don Eppes. By the end of tonight, this will be over. You just concentrate on keeping her there._"

The line disconnected, and Audrey slowly set down her cell phone, just in time to see the object of their call, Robin Brooks, pass by the doorway of her office, with a brief glance through the window set into Audrey's office door. Brooks was headed toward the coffee area, and Audrey rose from her desk, grabbed her coffee mug, and followed her.

She strolled casually over to the coffee pot, yawning. "Hey, Robin. Wow, I need some java. This is going to be a long night. How about you – working late?"

Robin gave her a curious glance, and then her face turned expressionless as she dipped a tea bag into the hot water in her cup. "Yeah, I'm working late myself."

"I might order some Thai later," said Audrey. "Let me know if you want anything."

Robin smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Sure, Audrey, thanks, I will." She picked up her cup and walked back toward her office, and Audrey's gaze followed her until she was out of sight.

* * *

Charlie was unceremoniously shoved facedown into the floorboards in the backseat of the 300M, covered with a dark blanket, and held there by a foot on his neck and a pistol in his ribs for the duration of the ride. It was cramped and uncomfortable; he couldn't breathe, and the claustrophobia generated by the pressure on his neck, the blanket, and the rise of the floorboards pushing into his gut mingled with panic, to the point that he nearly hyperventilated. Finally, the car slowed and stopped, idling for a moment. Charlie, trying to modulate his breathing under the blanket, could hear the sound of a mechanical door rising, and then the car moved forward again and stopped. The engine shut off and car doors opened, and with a sinking heart, Charlie knew they had arrived at their destination.

The pressure on his neck eased, and then the blanket was whipped off and hands pulled on his arms bound behind him, making his shoulder joints protest. He was dragged out of the car and to his feet, and found himself facing one of the largest men he had ever seen. He was easily six-four, with a broad muscular frame, a shaved head, and sharp gray eyes.

He stepped forward, smiling, and gave Charlie a pat on the cheek, a condescending gesture. "Dr. Eppes," he said, waving his hand grandly at their surroundings. "Welcome."

Charlie followed his hand and caught a glimpse of a small plant, filled with vats and tubing – some kind of chemical manufacturing concern, from the looks of it. A nearby label on a crate read, 'Midwest Industrial Solvents,' and the name jogged Charlie's memory – the small company was a holding of Illusion, Corp's. The big man turned and walked toward the center of the plant, and the men named Lew and Fitz grabbed Charlie's arms and marched him forward, following the big man. "Where do you want him, Derek?" asked the man named Lew.

'Derek,' Charlie thought to himself, 'Derek.' He remembered the name from a previous case involving Tuttle; he was certain the big man was one of Tuttle's right hand men. _That's right, Derek Mace…_

The big man waved a hand. "Over here." He stopped near a table and chair, which sat near the center of the plant between a metal support beam for the plant roof and large oblong metal vat, one of several in the room. The vat was roughly rectangular with rounded corners, about three feet high and about eight feet long, and a large metal lid had been unlatched and lifted from it, and propped against the side. Charlie could see that it was lined with what looked like ceramic, and was filled with fluid. A reddish mist was rising from the liquid inside. Mace waved his hand again, languidly. "Do you know what that is, Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie looked at the liquid – highly corrosive acids gave off mist at certain temperatures and concentrations, he knew, and in that state they were said to be fuming. The container radiated coolness, and Charlie could see the condensing equipment attached to the vat – part of the system that normally kept it refrigerated; in fact, he could hear the hum of the compressor now, trying to keep the liquid cold now that the lid was off. The fumes were reddish-brown, and he thought for a moment, trying to remember his chemistry. He knew the fact that the acid was fuming meant it was highly concentrated, but he didn't bother to relay that – Mace knew that as well as he did. "Nitric acid."

Derek Mace smiled again, broadly. "Very good, professor. And do you know what would happen to someone who was immersed in highly concentrated nitric acid?"

Charlie looked back at the vat, and his throat seized.

"Exactly," purred Mace. He pointed to the chair. "Have a seat." Charlie's captors pushed him toward the chair, and he lowered himself slowly, sitting forward slightly because of his bound hands. Mace leaned forward, putting his face inches from Charlie's. "We need to know a few things, professor. Cooperate, and you won't be hurt."

With difficulty, Charlie kept from snorting in the man's face. Mace was lying – Charlie knew well they would kill him as soon as they had what they wanted. His only chance was to hold out as long as possible – and besides, if they thought he would give his brother up, they were dreaming. Mace eyed him for a moment, then straightened. "We'd like to know, first of all, how much you have discovered, and how much the law knows. But before we get into that, let me ask you something simpler – where is your brother?"

"He left town."

The big man leaned forward again. "Where to?"

Charlie shook his head, and tried to lie convincingly. "I don't know."

Mace straightened, his face expressionless, and gave Lew a curt nod. Lew stepped forward and turned to face Charlie, and then suddenly drove a fist into his gut. Charlie's body jerked from the force of the blow, and he doubled over on the chair, gasping for breath through clenched teeth, his eyes watering from the pain.

"Oh, you know," said Mace calmly. "Don't lie – you're bad at it." Charlie was still gasping for breath when Mace nodded again, and Lew sent another blow into his rib cage, then gave him a jab to his face. Charlie grunted in pain, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, from a cut on the inside of his cheek. Mace surveyed him impassively. "Where is your brother?"

"Don't know," grunted Charlie, and then, "unng!" as another blow caught his rib cage.

Lew stepped back, wiggling and flexing his hand. "Damn," he muttered.

Mace sneered at him. "What's the matter, Spisak, hurt your little hand? Step back, asshole. I'm sure Fitz here would like to show you how it's done."

A drop of sweat rolled down Charlie's face – or maybe it was a tear, he wasn't sure which, as the white-haired man, Fitz, stepped in front of him. Charlie wasn't sure how things could get worse, but he was afraid, looking at the cold gleam in the albino's eyes, that the interrogation was about to go downhill.

* * *

Jackie Carotta paced the small warehouse office, with an annoyed glance at Cal. Cal was a big man, heavy, going to seed, and sat stolidly in the chair. _Lazy, fat pig,_ thought Jackie contemptuously. _What kind of rejects does Tuttle have working for him out here? A pig; and an albino freak._ He resolved to bring the issue up to Tuttle when they got back to L.A. Tuttle could use another guy in charge like Mace, out here in Chicago. Maybe if Jackie worked it right, he could be that guy. He'd whip these rejects into shape.

Part of his frustration came from being left out of the interrogation of Dr. Eppes. Jackie got off on pain – he liked killing; he liked hurting. He never got enough of it in his job – the chances to get in on action like that were rarer than he would like, and the albino freak and that wimpy Lew Spisak were having all the fun, while he was stuck here with oink-boy. He scowled in annoyance, and pulled out his cell phone. Nine p.m. already. He hit dial. "Yeah, Derek? Jackie. Nothin' here yet – you get anything out of the professor?"

Mace's voice sounded tight, and as frustrated as Jackie felt. '_No – hold on a minute_." Jackie could hear footsteps, and he knew that Mace was walking away from the others so he wouldn't be overheard. "_He says his brother went back to L.A., and I'm starting to believe him. He says Don wouldn't tell him why he went back – just that the professor should keep working here until Don contacted him. Why don't you come on back here with us? I don't think the agent is gonna show where you are. We're gonna change our line of questioning – start working on how much the professor knows about the operations_."

_Thank God,_ thought Jackie. Aloud, he said, "Yeah, okay. See you in a few minutes." He disconnected the call and jerked his head. "Come on, Cal. Mace wants us back at the factory."

He hadn't really bothered to search the office, and he made a half-hearted attempt to do so now. He dismissed the computer completely – it was obviously a lost cause. He'd already looked for papers or notes; there were none. Cal lumbered out of the room and Jackie paused and gave it a cursory sweep with his eyes before he turned and shut the door behind him. If he'd looked harder, he might have found the cell phone, which had been kicked under a desk, and if he'd torn apart the room, he might have found the flash drive that Charlie had hidden under the baseboard. As it was, all he could think about was getting back in time to inflict some pain of his own. He turned out the light and shut the door with a smile, unconsciously making a fist as he strode for the car. Things were about to look up.

* * *

End Chapter 28


	29. Take That

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 29: Take That**

Don sat up in the passenger seat, bolt upright, staring at the warehouse. "There they are," he said softly, and Colby followed his gaze.

"Yeah, I see 'em." Colby made sure his lights were turned off and then started the car; waiting a moment until the headlights of the other vehicle turned out of the parking lot. He started down the road after them, but didn't turn his headlights on until the other car swung around the corner.

"Just two of them," muttered Don. "We could have taken 'em."

"They wouldn't have talked, Don, and you know it," said Colby. "They wouldn't have dared cross Tuttle."

His SAC was silent – Colby was sure that Don knew he was right, but it had been tough on him, just sitting there for nearly three hours, waiting while they were doing who-knew-what to his younger brother. Colby kept his eyes glued to the taillights of the other vehicle; it was winding its way through some of the east side streets of Chicago, and traffic was heavy on some of the broader thoroughfares. The other cars on the busy streets made for good camouflage, but they also made it easy to lose sight of the perp's vehicle, and they had to keep close. When they hit less populated streets Colby dropped back a block or two. Finally, the car made a left, and as Colby approached the corner and could see down the street, he saw the car pull into the lot of a moderately sized industrial building – the sign said Midwest Industrial Solvents, and Colby could see the 300M parked in the lot. "Bingo," he said, and kept driving on past, going down two blocks before making a right and looping around to park about two blocks away, out of sight of the plant. He pulled out his cell phone. "I need to make a quick call," he said, and he saw Don look at him suspiciously. "Relax – I'm calling Wright. I'll put it on speaker, so you can listen in – and talk, too, if you want."

Don shifted impatiently in his seat. "We don't have time for this."

Colby raised an eyebrow, and hit speed dial. "If it wasn't Charlie in there, you'd be doing the same thing. You know we should report in – if something happens to us, someone needs to know. Besides, I'm thinking we're to the point where we should call in some backup."

Don hesitated. "I don't know. That would mean Charlie and I would have to come out of hiding – I'd rather just get him out of there, and disappear again for however long it takes for him to finish this."

Don hadn't realized that Colby had already hit speed dial, and he couldn't hear the phone ringing on the other end, but Colby was holding his cell phone near his face, and he could. Wright answered, and Colby hit the speaker button just as Don had started to talk. He suspected that Wright had just heard what Don had to say, and he had to grin a little when Don started in his seat, as Wright's voice came over the speaker.

"_He already has. Nice to talk to you, Agent Eppes_."

Don stared at the phone, and then at Colby, whose own jaw had dropped a little as Wright's words sunk in. "Wait a minute," said Colby. ""He already has?' You said Charlie finished it? How do you know?"

"_He called Amita a few hours ago. She gave him Mark Vincent's name, and he managed to connect it to Illusion, Corp., and the offshore account_."

"Hold on," said Don. "Who is Mark Vincent?"

"_Audrey Montague's disabled brother. He's in a coma, in a nursing home. At Tuttle and Jim Montague's direction, Audrey set up the accounts in his name – and she has power of attorney. They've been sending their electronically stolen funds through those accounts. We're in the process of getting warrants for the Montagues and Tuttle – have been, for the past three hours, but it's taking a while. You called at a good time – the federal judge is doing some checking and we're cooling our heels, waiting for him. As soon as these warrants are issued, you three can catch a flight home_."

Don was silent, and Colby looked at him, then spoke solemnly toward the phone. "We've got an issue on this end," he said. "Tuttle's thugs picked up Charlie early this evening. We followed some of them to a small plant – it's called Midwest Industrial Solvents, on the east side of Chicago, downtown. We're pretty sure Charlie's in there – but there are at least four of them, and we need some backup."

Wright was silent himself for a moment, then he said, "_Of course. What is your position?_" Colby relayed the information, and Wright said, "_Let me make some calls – I'll get our SAC in Chicago on the line, and have him line up SWAT and the Chicago PD. You said you were two blocks south of the warehouse, and out of sight? I'll have them check in with you there. I've got to go – it looks like the judge is ready for us – I'll make the call before I go in_."

The line disconnected, and Don gave Colby a direct stare, with just a hint of a challenge. "I need a piece. Mine is hidden back at the warehouse."

Colby looked at him for a long moment, then said, "In the glove box. There's a backup in it."

Don took out the nine millimeter, checked it to be sure it was loaded, and opened the passenger door. Colby frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not waiting for them," Don responded brusquely. "I'm going in."

Colby sighed, and opened his own door. "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

* * *

Lew Spisak winced as Jackie backhanded the professor across the face. He'd come to the conclusion that he was in the wrong line of work – he'd suspected before, but recently, he'd come to know it for certain. Earlier, after landing a half-hearted punch or two, Lew had faked the injury to his hand; he just couldn't do it anymore – any of it – the beatings, the threats to innocent people, the killings. He needed to get out, but he was terrified to ask. He knew too much. If he asked to get out, Tuttle would probably smile and let him go, and a few days later have someone kill him, and feed him to the fish in the bay. No, he was stuck. Maybe he could do something for Tuttle like what Nardek did – he had an accounting background – maybe he could handle Tuttle's illegal accounts. He could do paperwork. Anything but this.

Jackie Carotta grinned as Charlie Eppes' head whipped sideways, and Lew felt a rush of nausea. Jackie loved this shit, and was relishing the task of beating the hell out of the poor man. The professor's face was bruised and smeared with blood; both eyes were swollen shut. They'd untied his hands and stood him up at Jackie's request; the albino and Cal were holding him by the arms, because the professor was too wobbly to stand on his own – it was doubtful that he could even see.

"Spit it out, professor," said Jackie. "We know you at least uncovered Illusion, Corp. Who did you send the information to?"

Charlie Eppes was silent, his head hanging, his chest rising and falling as he tried to breathe through the pain. Jackie raised a hand again, then Mace said, "Step aside, Carotta. Let me."

Jackie reluctantly gave way, and Mace stepped forward, and drove a fist into the professor's abdomen. Mace was a monster; his blows so much more powerful than anything the rest of them could muster, and Eppes' feet actually left the floor, his body swinging backwards from the force of the blow. He collapsed, and Cal and Fitz allowed him to sink to his knees – in fact, Lew was sure that Charlie would be prone, if they weren't still holding his arms. His head was hanging, and Mace reached down, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his head up. "Talk, you little bastard!"

Mace raised his free hand again to strike, but his arm froze in mid-air, as a voice, as cold and deadly as steel, came from the rear of the warehouse. "Hit him again, and I'll put a bullet in your brain."

Their heads whipped around, and Lew felt a chill as he spotted the figure standing a few yards away, between two columns of stacked barrels. Agent Eppes wasn't that imposing, himself; he was bigger than his brother, to be sure, but he was much smaller than Mace, smaller even than Jackie. No, it wasn't his size, or even his gun that made Lew fearful – it was the look in his eye. As Lew gazed at the agent, he had the crazy feeling he was facing vengeance itself, an angel of death, and a shudder ran down his spine.

* * *

Audrey Montague felt a vibration at a little after six-thirty, and glanced at the number on her cell phone. "Finally," she breathed. It was the number on Tuttle's prepaid cell – he was being careful; he wouldn't want to have a record of a phone call from his home or business phones to the building right before Robin Brooks was murdered. Audrey had been trying to get hold of Tuttle since a bit before six; their floor had cleared out, and it was just her and Robin Brooks now. He could send in his men. She answered; her voice low and throaty. "We're alone on the floor."

"That's good," said Tuttle. His voice sounded odd; rushed, tight. "We've got big problems. I just got a call from someone inside the LAPD – they got word that someone got warrants for me and Jim. He wasn't sure about one for you, but he didn't think so. They're on their way to my place and to Jim's office now, and we're running out of time."

Audrey found her voice. "Shit." It rose to a shriek. "Shit! I told you -,"

"Shut up, bitch, get hold of yourself!" Tuttle roared into the phone. "We don't have long. I need you to take care of Brooks, now!" His voice lowered; terse, barely controlled. "You have your gun, right? Go in and do her now, then get out of the building. Call the offshore bank and dump the funds into the Swiss account, like we planned. Then get the hell out of the country – within the hour. Get a plane ticket, I don't care where, and call me later."

"But Everett, what about you – and Jim?" she wailed.

"I'll be okay," Tuttle said smoothly. "Jim, I'm afraid, is toast. He'll take the fall for this – I didn't bother to call him; he has no idea. I have to go – you're on your own for a bit. Don't screw this up, or you'll be joining Jim in the pen."

The line disconnected, and Audrey stared at the phone, her lip quivering. "Shit," she whispered. Then she shook herself, and a steely gleam appeared in her eye. No one was going to stand between her and her hard-won money – especially not Robin Brooks. She reached down in the drawer, slid a hand inside, and pulled out her little pearl-handled twenty-two. Guns, even registered guns, weren't permitted through the metal detectors; this one had been smuggled in for her by her husband, weeks ago. He had insisted that she have some kind of protection; she worked late, frequently alone in the office, and security was several floors down. She had thought it unnecessary at the time – but she was glad she had it, now.

* * *

Colby Granger edged closer to the man nearest him, who stood just a few feet away from the large vat, behind which Colby had crept. That man had been hanging back, observing the others, who had either been holding or pummeling Charlie. Colby chanced another peek; the entire group was looking at Don. Charlie was still on his knees on the floor, but he'd lifted his head at Don's voice, and Colby got a look at his battered profile. His eyes narrowed; Charlie was barely recognizable, his face bruised and covered with blood. The eye that Colby could see was swollen shut, and he realized suddenly, by the odd angle of the professor's head, that Charlie's eyelids were so swollen, he couldn't see. His face was turned toward Don's voice, but it was tilted slightly away from him. Colby's eyes flashed, and his jaw jutted pugnaciously. They were going to pay for this.

He recognized one of them – the large man who had been holding Charlie by the hair was Derek Mace. He'd slowly released his grip and straightened when Don spoke, and as Colby watched, he moved suddenly – catlike for such a big man, and grabbed the rim of a nearby barrel. It had to weigh hundreds of pounds, but Mace heaved it onto its side and sent it rolling toward Don.

Everyone moved at once. Don leapt out of the way, and with another step darted behind a group of barrels. Mace bounded sideways away from Colby, heading for the cover of some large stacked crates, but he snarled over his shoulder as a shot rang out from one of his men. "Don't shoot, asshole – we need them alive, until they talk!"

At the same time, Colby began to move, charging out from behind his cover as the two men holding Charlie dropped his arms and started to head toward Don. Colby tackled the man nearest him, sending him flying into a stack of empty metal barrels, which crashed to the ground and began rolling. Colby immediately set his sights on the next man, a strange-looking creature with pale eyes and white hair, and dove into his midsection so hard that they both careened, out of control, into the man who Mace had called Carotta. As Colby went down in a tangle of arms and legs, he got a glimpse of Charlie, shakily, blindly, trying to get to his feet.

* * *

Robin Brooks glanced up at the light knock, to see Audrey poke her head in through the door. "I was going to order that Thai food," said Audrey, pushing her way in. "I've got the menu pulled up on my computer – are you interested?"

Robin hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was to socialize with Audrey, but it would make it easier to keep an eye on her. She'd already walked past Audrey's office twice to get more tea, just to have an excuse to see if she was still there. "Okay," she said, "that sounds good."

She rose and stepped out from behind her desk. Audrey was holding the door, and as Robin began to move past her, she saw Audrey's arm come up out of the corner of her eye, and the glint of something metal in her hand.

Later, she reflected that if Audrey had waited just a split second longer before she made her move, Robin would have been all the way past her and wouldn't have seen the motion, and she no doubt would have ended up on her office carpet with a bullet in her back. And of course, if she wasn't already suspicious of Audrey to begin with, Robin knew she probably wouldn't have recognized the threat as quickly as she did. As it was, however, she saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, and reacted.

Audrey was to her left, and Robin put her left shoulder down and drove into her, pushing her against the door. The gun went off with a sharp crack; they both froze for a split second at the sound, and then when they realized that neither of them had been hit, Robin grabbed for the gun, just as Audrey pushed back. They both tumbled to floor, heedless of hiked skirts and lost shoes, each of them grappling, trying to get a grip on the gun.

* * *

Don had dodged behind some barrels to his right as a shot rang out. He heard Mace's snarled command to his men not to shoot, and as he saw Colby charge into the band of men like a linebacker, he started to move out from behind the barrels to assist him. Charlie was trying to stagger to his feet, both eyes swollen shut and his hands out, trying to feel his way, and Don's eyes were on him, when a freight train hit him from the side.

Derek Mace had come quickly around the far side of some crates and equipment, snuck behind the barrels, and hit him with a tackle similar to Colby's, only with added height and several more pounds of muscle to accompany it. He drove Don into a stack of large cardboard containers, and Don felt his rib cage flex under the pressure. It forced the air out of him, making his head swim, but he managed a sharp chop with the nine millimeter to the side of Mace's head. The blow opened a cut and blood ran down past Mace's ear; it would have dropped a lesser man, but Mace merely shook his head to clear it, and then looked at Don and grinned. He charged again, and they hit the boxes and bounced off, rolling on the ground, Don's gun skittering away on the concrete floor. Mace ended up on top of him and lifted his meaty fist, then brought it down with all his strength. Don jerked his head away at the last second, but the fist grazed his cheekbone – even the glancing blow was enough to send searing pain through the left side of his face, and stars through his vision. There was no doubt about it – he was seriously outmatched. He had to get out from under that mountain of muscle, and fast.

* * *

Robin rolled; an iron grip on Audrey's wrist. Audrey was kicking, pulling hair, scratching like a cat, anything to dislodge Robin's grip, and Robin, tired of using her free hand to defend herself, reared back and sent a sharp jab into Audrey's pert, surgically-sculpted little nose. Audrey gave a cry of pain and relaxed her grip just slightly, momentarily, but it was enough. Robin took advantage of that, and smacked Audrey's forearm hard against the corner of the desk, and the gun went bouncing away. Audrey gave a short scream of rage, and rolled and pushed hard and Robin rolled with her; smacking her head on the same corner of the desk. It dazed her for a moment, and it was enough for Audrey to kick clear, and race out the door of the office. Robin, shoeless, hair and skirt askew, staggered to her feet, and she set her jaw determinedly. "Oh, no, you don't!" she muttered, and tore off after Audrey down the hall.

* * *

Mace raised his fist again, his arm like a massive coiled spring. "Oh, no, you don't," muttered Don, and as Mace brought his arm down, instead of dodging, Don rose up to meet him, lifting his upper body and ducking his head, and sending a sharp jab toward Mace's throat. He caught some of Mace's fist again on the side of his head, but he was rewarded for his effort; Mace was moving forward with the punch, so Don's jab hit his throat with that much more force, and he scored a direct hit on Mace's Adam's apple. Mace coughed and sputtered and his throat spasmed; for a moment he couldn't breathe. His hands went to his throat, and Don took that opportunity to send two fists into Mace's gut, and those were finally enough to topple him, at least temporarily. Mace began to sag sideways, his hands still at his throat, and Don pushed him off and then scrambled to his feet.

* * *

All around him, Charlie could hear grunts, scuffling; the sounds of struggle. He could see nothing; his eyes had swollen so completely shut that he couldn't even pry a lid open with his finger. They ached unbearably, so did his face, head and torso, and the gunshot that had rung out had terrified him – he was certain it had been aimed at Don. He thought he had an idea of where Don was by the sound of his voice, but he could make nothing further out of the sounds of struggle around him – he conjectured there must be someone else there to help Don, because he couldn't imagine him holding off the entire group by himself. He was a target himself, he knew, a sitting duck because he couldn't see, and was too beaten, too injured to be more than a feeble help. Help, though, was exactly what he was determined to do – he was going to go down fighting. He staggered to his feet, took a wobbly step toward the sound of the scuffle nearest him, and swung.

His fist connected with someone – not hard enough to do real damage, but apparently enough to distract – he heard an oath, and then he was shoved backwards. He had no warning the push was coming and lost his equilibrium, his arms flailing as he staggered back, trying to get his balance again. He half turned and stumbled, inadvertently driving his shoulder into someone. There was a grunt, then a scream, followed immediately by a splash and a sickening gurgle. Charlie, turning toward the sound, felt droplets hit his legs, and knew with horror that someone had just gone into the open vat of nitric acid. He was still staggering, still off balance, and he tried to backpedal away from the splashing sound, as a burning sensation began in spots on his legs; the acid was eating through his jeans. He caromed off someone moving next to him and went down sideways, putting an arm out to stop his fall. It was suddenly seized by something - his left arm had gotten tangled in between the metal leg of the table and someone's legs as they scrambled to move away; there was unbearable pressure in his forearm, then an audible snap. He screamed, and the sound mingled with the horrible noises that were coming from the direction of the acid vat.

* * *

Audrey was fast; she was halfway down the hall by the time Robin got out through her office door -- but Robin was faster. She was taller and more athletic than Audrey, and she dove for the other woman just as Audrey wrenched open the emergency exit to the staircase, next to the elevator.

Audrey went down hard with Robin on top of her, and Robin heard a thump as Audrey's head hit the floor. It was carpeted, but the hallway carpet was anything but cushy, and Robin heard a grunt and felt Audrey go still; the contact with the floor had knocked her out cold. Robin found herself sitting astride her opponent, gasping for air, and she ran the back of her hand across her forehead to wipe off the sweat. "Take that, you bitch," she panted, and that was how the security man and a handful of LAPD officers found them, when they burst off the elevator a second later.

Robin looked up at the nearest officer calmly, and gave a yank to her skirt, which, since she was straddling Audrey, was riding up around her hips. "I guess you're here to serve an arrest warrant," she said.

* * *

Don was on his feet now, and Mace, although he still had a hand to his throat and was breathing raggedly, was coming around. The battle wasn't over yet, but as the sound of Charlie's cry reached Don's ears, he knew that no matter what, he had to take care of Mace – now. His gun was nowhere in sight, so he did the only thing he could think of that would be enough to overcome Mace's brute strength. He put his shoulder to the nearest stack of barrels, and pushed with all his might, as Mace slowly started to rise. The stack swayed, and then Don hit it again, grunting with pain as his shoulder contacted metal. One of the barrels – just one, but at hundreds of pounds, one was enough – tilted and fell, right on top of Mace just as he gained his feet. It bounced off and rolled away, but Mace went down like a load of bricks, and lay there, face down, unconscious. "Take that, you son of a bitch," Don muttered, and immediately turned to look for Charlie.

He was now aware of a strange sound, like a strangled scream, and as he darted out from behind the barrels, he was greeted by a horrible sight. One of the men – he couldn't even tell who, was staggering around, dripping with liquid; his face already unrecognizable, a mass of raw exposed skin, his hair gone, his lips and eyelids nearly so. His heart in his throat, Don searched the remaining men for Charlie and Colby, even as he started forward. There – there was Colby, his gun out, covering three men who were standing in front of him. They all had their hands up, unmoving out of respect for Colby's Glock, but part of their inertia was generated by shock – they were all staring, horrified, at the dying man in front them, who had fallen to his knees with an awful gurgling sound, pawing at his face with what was left of his fingertips.

Don's heart rate was increasing; he couldn't see Charlie. He'd thought the dying man had looked too tall for Charlie, and he looked back at him again to be sure, but he was on his knees now – it was hard to tell. Don was forcing himself to look, trying to study the remnants of the man's clothes to see if they looked familiar, when he came around the vat, and spotted Charlie on the floor. He was half under the table, leaning against an I-beam next to it, and Don felt a wave of relief wash through him that was so strong, it made him giddy. It didn't last long; Charlie might not have been bathed in acid, but he was clearly in bad shape, shaking; his face and eyes swollen, his left arm cradled to his chest. Don hesitated – he knew he needed to help Colby subdue the men in front of them, but his instinct told him he needed to go to Charlie. He'd hardly had time to ponder his dilemma when it was solved. Shouts were heard at the door, men in Chicago PD uniforms and SWAT personnel in flak jackets burst into the room, and Don headed directly for Charlie, as the SWAT team took over for Colby.

Don got on his knees next to his brother, and gently laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie flinched, shuddering violently, and Don realized that he couldn't see who was there. It was also frighteningly apparent that he was going into shock. "It's okay, Buddy, it's me," he said, and Charlie turned his battered face to him. Don pulled his brother gently toward him, and carefully wrapped his arms around him, trying to warm him, to stave off the shock until the medics could get in to help. "It's okay, Charlie, it's over," he said softly, "it's okay." In spite of his words, he could taste fear, thick in the back of his throat, as Charlie shook in his arms. Shock could be life threatening; his brother might have internal injuries, and his eyes…. All sorts of scenarios, none of them good, coursed through Don's mind.

Still, he kept whispering, over and over, as much to himself as to Charlie. "It's over, it's okay…"

* * *

A light knock was heard at the door, and Jim Montague looked up from his desk with irritation. He was working late, going over reports from a case just closed with the Las Vegas field office, and he just wanted to finish up and get out of there. He had planned to make one of his rare clandestine visits to Tuttle's house that evening and find out how the day had gone. He knew that Tuttle had sent men to Chicago to find the Eppes brothers that morning, and he was hoping that Tuttle would tell him he had resolved the threat.

The knock was followed by the opening of the door, and Phillip Wright stuck his head through the doorway. Montague's tone was expressionless, but his body language was clearly dismissive, as he put his head down to look at his paperwork again and said, "Yes, Phil, what can I do for you?"

Wright walked in and sat casually in a chair – something that was both odd and annoying in itself – Wright didn't usually sit unless he was asked to do so. His laidback demeanor and the late hour made Montague suspect that he wanted to chat, and chatting was the last thing that Jim wanted to do. He looked up sharply with disapproval on his face, as Wright said mildly, "You can come with me to LAPD headquarters."

Montague felt a quick flash of trepidation, but he dismissed it, and hid it with irritation. "I don't have time for excursions tonight, Phil – what is it?"

"You're under arrest for electronic fraud, electronic theft, conspiracy to commit murder, and conspiracy for attempted kidnapping, among other things," said Wright. His face was bland, his voice relaxed, the delivery almost tongue-in-cheek.

Montague stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Jim," said Wright, unruffled. "I don't think you want a scene. Why don't you walk out quietly with me, and save yourself some embarrassment? We can read you your rights at headquarters."

Montague felt as though his heart had frozen in place, but his mind whirred, spinning furiously. Wright had found them out, somehow – but if Phil thought he would just walk hand-in-hand with him to LAPD headquarters, he was sadly mistaken. In fact, Wright had made a mistake the moment he decided to come up here to confront him alone, in a nearly empty building. Below the lip of his desktop, Montague's hand stole toward his middle drawer, which contained his service weapon. The fact that he hadn't had an occasion to use it in years didn't mean he didn't still know how.

Wright was shaking his head. "Jim, Jim. I wouldn't do that if I were you – it would be a horrible mistake."

Wright's condescending air threw fire on Montague's increasing tension, and he snapped. He jerked the drawer open, pulled out the gun and pointed it at Wright, who had taken out his cell phone. "Drop the phone, Phil," he rasped. He rose to his feet, his gun aimed at Wright's chest.

Wright shrugged, the gesture hiding the fact that he'd pushed a speed dial button, and complied. He released the phone and it tumbled to the floor, just as the door burst open and David Sinclair and his team burst into the room, wearing tactical gear and armed to the teeth. Montague stared at them, stricken.

"Put down the gun, Jim, it's over," said Wright calmly from his seat.

Montague continued to gaze at him for a moment, then slowly lowered his pistol to his desk and closed his eyes, as his hands were cuffed behind his back, by his own agents.

Wright watched them lead him from the room, and spoke softly to Montague's departing back. "Take that, you bastard."

* * *

End Chapter 29


	30. I Just Called to Say I Love You

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 30: I Just Called to Say, "I Love You"**

J. Everett Tuttle handed the prepaid cell to Ralph Nardek. "You know what to do?" he asked tersely.

Nardek nodded, even though the first part of the plan made him a little nervous. He wasn't a _thug_, like Jackie Carotta; generally, his contribution to Tuttle's organization was more refined. Still, he knew that he could pull this off -- for several reasons. First and foremost, he looked every inch the educated gentleman. When he entered the locker room of the executive gymnasium in downtown Los Angeles, he would arouse no suspicions. He patted his pocket, reassuring himself that the false identification was there. It was, along with the membership badge; gaining admittance to the gym would not be a problem. Once in the locker room, it would be even less of a problem to open Jim Montague's locker, and drop the phone inside. Nardek's specialty might be computers, but he had gone out of his way to ensure that he became a valuable multi-tasking employee to Mr. Tuttle; he had spent hours of his own time under Lew Spisak's tutelage, and now he could pick a lock almost as well as he could trace an IP.

Nardek regurgitated the plan when Tuttle did not look entirely satisfied. "Plant the phone," he recited. "Stay at the gym for at least an hour -- I think I'll take a swim." He smiled, for now the plan was coming to the part he liked. "Go to the safe house; power up the laptop we keep there, and start the transfer."

Tuttle allowed himself a grim smile, as well. "The authorities found the Mark Vincent connection -- just the way we set it up. By the time they stop slapping each other on the back and decide to dig a little deeper, PD Unlimited will be history."

"Right," confirmed Nardek. "There's a little over two million tied to the Perception Deception infrastructure." He snorted. "Before all this started with the Eppes, Audrey actually asked me if we were skimming enough from Illusion Corporation -- she didn't think the Vincent accounts were building up fast enough."

Tuttle's smile broadened. "That slut is such an idiot," he crowed. "Give her a good orgasm every now and then and you can convince her of anything!"

Nardek blushed. "Yes. Well...I'll take your word for that." Tuttle threw back his head and laughed, and Nardek cleared his throat. "Anyway," he continued, "after I've moved everything from PD Unlimited to Paradox, I destroy all traces of PD Unlimited. Illusion, Corp. will still be accessible, but there will be no way they will be able to tie it to you – the only obvious tie-in will be Audrey and Jim Montague. Before I leave the safe house, I dismantle the laptop and shred the hard disk; melt everything else down in the wood stove. I wait for the ashes to cool so that I can take them with me when I leave; I'll find a dumpster on my way back to my place."

"The police will be looking for you by then," Tuttle reminded Nardek. "Be careful; watch for tails. I should already be in custody -- or maybe my attorney will have done his well-paid job, and gotten me released!"

"Don't fret," Nardek teased. "While we're being investigated, Paradox will be earning interest. By this time next year, Illusion Corporation will be entirely on the Montague's fine china, and we'll be completely in the clear. They won't even notice when we move our operations to Aruba."

Tuttle chuckled, and glanced at the clock on the wall. "You'd better hurry; the cops could get here any minute."

"I'll go out the back," Nardek assured him. He winked. "Don't enjoy yourself too much in that holding cell, Everett!"

"Go on, get out," Tuttle mumbled, turning away from Nardek. "I'll save you a place."

* * *

Colby flipped his cell shut and stepped back in front of the Trauma Center doors. They _swooshed_ open and he entered the lobby, pocketing his cell as he stepped aside to let a hugely pregnant woman, headed in the other direction, waddle past him. When he finally made his way to the waiting area, he was surprised -- and relieved -- to see Don there. His friend was sitting awkwardly on the edge of a hard plastic chair, looking anxiously at the closed double doors that protected the exam bays.

Colby smiled and quickly crossed to the bank of chairs. He settled into one on Don's left. "Hey," he greeted quietly. "The ribs okay?"

Don didn't as much as turn his head. "Just bruised," he answered dully. "They took Charlie to some special ophthalmological exam room while I was down in X-ray." His tone was bitter and accusatory, as if someone had deliberately conspired to keep the brothers apart. "Said somebody would come for me when he's back in a regular exam bay."

Colby nodded, his own gaze drifting to the double doors. He shook his head, and let a note of wonder creep into his voice. "I just checked in with Bob Staab from the Chicago office. His team found that flash drive Charlie hid at the warehouse -- exactly where he said it would be. Pretty fast thinking."

Don snorted. "I still can't believe he was even conscious, let alone worried about telling Staab where to find the flash drive." He shuddered. "When I think how close he came to falling into that acid…have they ID'd the vic, yet?"

Colby started to nod; then stopped and canted his head to the side. "Well, there wasn't much left to work with, as far as prints. They're still waiting for a dental confirmation, but the lab rats managed to pull enough off his license so that Staab is pretty sure it's 'Lew Spisak'. Wright had Tuttle's dossier transmitted to Staab, and Spisak is listed as a 'known associate.' Judging from his build and the company he kept, I think we know what sort of thing he did for Tuttle." Granger shook his head a little as he straightened his posture. A note of awe crept into his voice. "Charlie may be little, and he was beat to hell and essentially blind, but he still managed to take out one of the bad guys. He's a gutsy dude, your brother." Don didn't answer right away, but Colby heard an audible swallow. He was careful to keep his eyes averted from Don as he continued his report. "Staab says his lab guys are working on the flash drive -- I told him Phil was flying Amita out here, and she could probably help. Not only is she an official FBI consultant, she knows how Charlie thinks."

This time Don turned his head to look at him, his eyebrows arched in surprise. "Who the hell is Phil?"

Colby reddened. "Damn. Guess I have to go back to _'Assistant Director Wright'_." Don just looked at him in confusion, until Colby explained further. "I called A.D. Wright to fill him in on...everything...and he said he'd have David put your Dad and Amita on the next flight."

The hint of bitterness was back in Don's voice when he responded. "But not Robin." He seemed to hear his own words and rushed into an explanation. "Not that I don't want Dad and Amita to come out..."

Colby shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "Uh...yeah. Well, the thing is, Don, Robin sort of beat the shit out of Audrey Montague. Wright needs her statement on that, as well as how she figured out the Mark Vincent connection."

Don's eyes were round with surprise. He half-stood, then sank into the chair again. "_Robin did what?_" he finally asked loudly.

Colby suppressed a smile and dug his phone out of his pocket, offering the cell to Don. "It's a long story," he said. "Why don't you step outside and give her a call?" Don eyed the phone hungrily, and then his eyes flashed back to the double doors. Colby casually bumped Don's forearm with his own. "Go," he encouraged. "I'll come to get you if someone comes looking for you."

Don finally snatched the phone from Colby's fingers and stood. Before he left the waiting area, he looked down at Colby, meeting his eyes. "Thanks," he said quietly. "I'm sorry; I didn't know who to trust."

Colby shrugged. "It's not like I have a stellar track record," he admitted. "Besides, it wasn't just me -- you were afraid to talk to Wright, David, Robin -- it wasn't personal." He looked steadily at Don. "Right?"

Don nodded. "It wasn't, Colby," he said sincerely. He extended the hand that wasn't clutching Granger's cell phone for dear life. "Thank you; for coming out here anyway. You saved Charlie's life -- and mine. I won't forget that."

Colby reddened again, but smiled broadly as he reached out to shake Don's hand. "Then I'll look forward to my next evaluation," he winked.

* * *

Robin jerked in a startled response when she heard her phone ring, and swore quietly under her breath as she reached for her briefcase, which was sitting on the floor of the interrogation room. "Get a grip, counselor," she reprimanded herself. "So a crazy bitch tried to put an extra hole in your head; it's not as if _that_ hasn't happened before!" She finally retrieved the cell and snapped it open, bringing the phone to her ear impatiently. "Brooks," she barked into the unit.

A low chuckle she'd been terrified she would never hear again floated through cyberspace and seemed to come right through the phone, expanding in the room around her until she was cocooned in the warmth and comfort it created. "You learned that from me."

A quick intake of breath. "Don? My God, is that you?"

Don's laughter gave way to a sad regret. "Robin, I'm so sorry. It wasn't _you_ that I didn't trust..."

"I know," she interrupted. "You were right to suspect the Montagues -- both of them. Audrey was in it up to her eyeballs." Her tone became defiant. "I'm _glad_ you didn't try to contact me!"

There was a brief pause before a subdued Don answered. "You're the most incredible woman I've ever known." Robin smiled into the phone but didn't say anything before Don went on, a note of bemused wonder creeping into his voice. "Colby told me that you made the Mark Vincent connection, broke the whole case wide open...and something about beating the shit out of Audrey Montague?"

Robin's laugh linked directly to Don's groin, and he was embarrassed to feel a slight stirring behind his button fly. "She tried to shoot me," Robin announced almost nonchalantly. "That sort of behavior pisses me off."

Immediately, Don's ardor dampened. "My God," he said, concern coloring his voice. "Are you all right? Robin, if anything..."

She interrupted him again, quietly this time. "I'm good, Eppes. I'm fine. It was a pretty sorry excuse for a weapon, anyway; even if she'd hit me, it probably wouldn't have hurt." She heard Don's breathing, slightly erratic, and frowned. "Are _you_ all right? A.D. Wright told me that Colby arrived in Chicago in time to help tie everything up, but he hasn't given me any details, yet. I'm waiting for him now, in an interrogation room."

Don grew suspicious. "Interrogation?" he asked, angrily.

Robin rolled her eyes. "Calm down, cowboy; we're just using the room. It's not an official interrogation; I just have to give him my statement. Both of the conference rooms are in use."

Don tried to calm himself down, and trust her answer. "Maybe you should have an attorney," he suggested.

She laughed again. "I _am_ an attorney, idiot!" Her voice grew serious again. "Now. Tell me."

Don sighed into the phone. "Colby saved our lives," he admitted. "He got to the place where Charlie and I have been staying just in time to watch Charlie get dragged out, and shoved into a car. Then he saw _me_, walking down the street, about to step right into the trap. If Granger hadn't been there..." He left the rest to Robin's imagination. Before she let the possibilities take her too far, however, he continued the story. "We followed the guy who had been waiting for me; he met up with the others, where they were holding Charlie, just like we hoped. There was a struggle," he admitted sadly.

The fine hairs stood up on the back of her neck. "Don?"

"I'm okay," he assured his lover. "A few bruises. It's Charlie." He almost choked out his brother's name, and Robin heard his distress. She held her tongue until he could pull himself together enough to speak. "They hurt him pretty badly before we got there." It came as an ashamed whisper.

"You got there in time," she soothed, hoping she was right. "You got him out."

"I wouldn't have had to, if I hadn't dragged him into this in the first place!" Don retorted.

Robin spoke with conviction and candor. "Don, the Charlie I know doesn't get dragged into anything. If you had told him everything that would happen, he still would have chosen to do what he could to help you. You know that as well as I do."

"Yeah," he admitted.

"And you will do whatever you can to help him," she continued matter-of-factly. "Have you spoken to a doctor, yet?"

Don shook his head. "He's still being examined; they wouldn't let me in, it was some kind of special ophthalmology thing." He spoke fearfully. "His eyes looked bad, Rob."

"Call me as soon..."

Don was distracted from her voice when the glass doors _swooshed_ open and Colby came through them, peering at Don anxiously. "Don!" Granger reached out to grab at Don's arm. "There's a doc asking for you."

"Oh, God," Don breathed into the phone. "Robin, Colby says there's a doctor asking for me now. I'll call you later. I love you."

Robin tightened her grip on her own cell. "I love you too, Don. Give Charlie my best."

In spite of his apprehension, Don grinned, even as he walked back toward the Trauma Center doors with Colby. "Nah," he answered, surprising Robin a little. She blushed when he finished his sentence. "I'm saving that for myself."

* * *

End, Chapter 30


	31. Sort of Blind, Here

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 31:** **Sort-of Blind, Here**

Charlie looked...well, Don was sure Charlie was supposed to look better. He was still wearing the C-collar that had been applied by the emergency medical technicians in the field, but he was neatly dressed in a crisp hospital gown, a warm blanket tucked around most of him as he lay flat on his back on the gurney. One arm -- the broken one -- was outside the blanket. A small ice pack rested on the forearm. Don vaguely registered a 'personal belongings' bag in the corner, and wondered what was inside. Surely not his brother's jeans; they had been cut off him back at the warehouse, so that the chemical burns on his lower legs could be doused with copious amounts of saline. Perhaps the blood-spattered yard sale t-shirt? That had been likely given to the Chicago FBI as evidence of the assault. Maybe all that was in the bag was Charlie's wallet, complete with fake ID -- the real stuff was hidden at the bottom of his backpack, which was back in the...no, maybe it wasn't. Staab's men probably had all their stuff. Don would have to find out.

He lowered himself carefully and quietly to a folding chair that had been set up next to the gurney. He thought Charlie might be asleep -- although with his eyes still swollen shut, and covered by the strip of gauze that encircled his head, Don couldn't really tell. He cleared his throat so that Charlie wouldn't be startled when Don started to speak. "Buddy? You awake?"

Charlie didn't move -- except for his Adam's apple, which bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "Did the doctor talk to you?" he whispered.

Don smiled, even though Charlie couldn't see him. "Yeah," he confirmed. "He said your legs will be fine; most of the burns are first degree. A couple of them blistered, but the areas are so small that he doesn't expect any complications." He tried to laugh, and failed miserably. "He said there might be some scarring of those second-degree chemical burns, but he could tell from the rest of your body that any scars would be camouflaged by hair, soon, anyway. So, that won't be a problem either." Charlie's Adam's apple bobbed again, and Don scooted the chair a little closer to the gurney. "Good news about your arm, too. They're going to try a closed reduction."

Charlie shifted under the sheet. "My eyes," he whispered. "Tell the truth. Do you think they can fix them?"

Don laid a light hand on top of Charlie's good arm, the blanket separating them. "They do this surgery all the time," he said, trying to keep his voice positive. "In fact, the guy they have coming in to do it is one of the top ophthalmological surgeons in the country; he just happens to be right here in Chicago."

Charlie sighed quietly. "Both of them, Donny," he said sadly. "Detached retinas in both eyes. That's bad."

Don thought again about the brute he had battled in the warehouse. If that monster had been the one to hit Charlie with his steel fist, his brother was lucky his eyes were still in their sockets. He patted Charlie's good arm. "He's the best," he said again. "You'll be fine. They decided to put you under a general; an orthopedic specialist will reduce the ulnar fracture at the same time." He tried again to lighten the mood. "Good thing CalSci has some decent insurance."

Charlie tried to play along. "I expect the FBI to pay for this," he said.

Don's smile grew more genuine. "Hey." He changed the subject. "Colby said Wright is flying Dad and Amita out here."

Charlie's surprise showed in his voice, if not his swollen face. "Really? They're not planning to make me stay here long...I have to wear patches over my eyes for a few days, though. It might take all of you to steer me onto an airplane so we can go home."

Don's smile faltered. "No flying, Buddy, remember?"

Charlie sounded depressed, again. "Oh. The gas bubble. I forgot."

Don wished _he_ could. The whole process sounded pretty grim, to him. The scleral buckling surgery involved sewing a foreign object -- the buckle -- to the whites of Charlie's eyes; this, apparently, pushed the sclera toward the middle of the eye, relieving traction from the detached retina, which could then settle into its proper position against the wall of the eye. Then, quite literally adding insult to injury, the ophthalmologist would inject a gas bubble into each of Charlie's eyes, to flatten the retina and hold it in place during the healing process. The bubbles would absorb into the eyes, eventually; this could occur in as little as two weeks, or take as long as three months. Don involuntarily shuddered. Personally, a stray eyelash in one of his eyes made him crazy. Charlie was about to be saddled with two pieces of semi-hard plastic, which he would carry the rest of his life, as well as two gas bubbles that could result in blurry, fuzzy vision for months.

Charlie had felt his shudder and fear crept into his voice; his own arm trembled beneath Don's hand. "Donny?"

Don silently reprimanded himself for slipping into an apprehensive distraction; there would be time for that later, when Charlie was in surgery. "It's nothing," he reassured his brother softly. "Not all of us have blankets fresh from the hospital's warming oven," he teased gently. "It's cold in here."

Charlie's bruised mouth allowed his lips to curl slightly in a parody of a smile. "Wuss," he said, valiantly trying to follow Don's lead. "Does Donny want my blanky?"

Don grinned widely. God bless him, Charlie was -- as Colby had noticed -- a gutsy guy. His grin faded as another unwelcome thought skittered through his head: it was a good thing Charlie was gutsy; something told him his brother was going to need to be.

* * *

J. Everett Tuttle turned to the suit beside him, his face a study of shocked indignation. "That's not possible!" he roared.

Randall K. Fishbein the Third frowned and shook his head rapidly. "Don't say another word." Fishbein turned his head to look at Phillip Wright and David Sinclair. "My client has nothing to say." He started to stand, tugging at Tuttle's upper arm. "Until you think you have enough to press charges, we'll be on our way."

Tuttle jerked his arm away from his attorney's grip. "I'll speak for myself," he growled, looking from Wright to Sinclair. "What you're saying is impossible." He still sounded shocked, mired in denial. "Audrey and James Montague? He's a high-ranking official of the Federal Bureau of Investigation! She's a federal attorney!" He glanced up at his own attorney, who was still standing. An expression of hurt and betrayal was on Tuttle's face. "That's why I agreed to form a partnership with Jim in the first place! Yes, we were in the same fraternity at the university; that's how we met. But I've _always_ been a very careful businessman; if he and his wife hadn't come with such impeccable references, I never would have agreed to partner with them in Illusion Corporation!" He turned wide, disbelieving eyes toward Wright. "You're saying they cheated me? They drained funds from Illusion?"

Sinclair snorted. "Damn. You're good, Tuttle, I'll give you that much. Did you study drama at Harvard?"

Tuttle placed his hands on the table; they were shaking. He looked fully at Sinclair. "I know Agent Eppes does not have a good opinion of me...maybe that's why he's not the one in here with me, now. But I am telling you the truth, Agent. I had no idea the Montagues were dirty. If they are, they have certainly been working without my help." He paused, seeming to entertain a silent thought before he groaned and lifted one hand to his head. "I should have listened to Nardek!"

David glanced down at his open notebook, which was lying on the table. "Ralph Nardek?"

Tuttle nodded. "Yes, yes -- he's my financial advisor. He keeps a close eye on all of my businesses...he tried to tell me recently that something was off with Illusion Corporation, but the amounts in question were so small...infinitesimal, some of them. I thought he was over-reacting; he's a bit anal retentive, sometimes."

Wright spoke, his sardonic tone telling everyone in the room that he wasn't convinced by Tuttle's performance. "Well, he's right down the hall with two more of my agents -- both of the Montagues are in separate holding facilities, waiting their turns. We'll know the truth soon enough."

Tuttle's attorney was still standing. He gripped Tuttle's upper arm once more, encouraging him to join him on his feet. "Charge my client or release him," he insisted.

Tuttle stood this time, but jerked away from his attorney, again. "I believe Mr. Fishbein is correct," he informed Sinclair and Wright. "Of course, I want to get to the bottom of this as badly as you do, and I will cooperate fully with your investigation. But there's really not much more I can tell you; at least not until you talk to the others." He arched a sculpted eyebrow. "Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Wright suppressed his rage, standing so that he was not forced to look up at Tuttle. "We can hold you as a material witness," he threatened.

"Witness to what, exactly?" countered Fishbein. "He was nowhere near the scene when Audrey Montague assaulted Counselor Brooks. The Montagues were obviously working together; the phone number programmed into the prepaid cell found on Ms. Montague's person was traced by GPS to another prepaid cell -- in James' Montague's gym locker. Mark Vincent is Audrey Montague's brother, over whom she holds Power of Attorney. I have seen no evidence that links my client to illegal activity of any kind. He made a bad business decision, and trusted the wrong people. Last time I checked, being a victim was not yet a crime in this country."

Wright leaned over the table until his face was only a few inches from Fishbein's. "This investigation is just beginning. Until I, personally, am convinced otherwise, your client remains a suspect: in electronic funds transfer fraud; the attempted murder of two federal employees; the kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder of a valuable federal consultant; and whatever else I can dig up in the next few days. I'll have my own agents, supplemented by LAPD officers, watching every move he makes, until I either declare him 'cleared' -- or escort his ass to jail." He jabbed a forefinger into Fishbein's tie. "If I were you, I would advise my client to refrain from entertaining the notion of leaving town. He so much as crosses the city of Los Angeles limits; you'll **both** be cooling your heels in a holding cell."

Fishbein drew himself up to his full height. "Is that a threat, Assistant Director?"

Wright smiled, but the expression was not friendly. "That, sir," he answered, "is my personal guarantee."

* * *

Don was waiting for Charlie in his hospital room, when they wheeled Charlie in from recovery, and transferred him to the bed. It was impossible to determine his state of consciousness -- an entire roll of pristine, white gauze was wrapped around his head, securing protective eye cups into place. A nurse had accompanied him to the room, and immediately busied herself by tucking Charlie into bed, and taking a set of vitals.

Don hovered uncertainly on the other side of the hospital bed. "Is he...okay?" he asked in a small voice. The surgeon had already spoken with Don, of course, so he knew the details. The gauze and eye cups would be removed in the morning, and replaced with eye patches. After that, if the swelling of Charlie's arm had receded enough, his soft cast would be replaced by a more permanent, plaster, cast; he might not be ready for that until after they returned to Los Angeles. His surgery had gone "as well as expected", a term that scared Don to death. Scleral buckling surgery had a 90 percent success rate, and Don clung to that number; but they had also told him that there were still serious risks and possible complications. Choroidal detachment, excessive bleeding, scar tissue.... Worse, the macula of Charlie's right eye was affected by the retinal detachment. According to the doctor, this meant that good vision after surgery was still possible -- but less likely.

The middle-aged female RN smiled at him kindly. "He's just sleeping," she answered softly. "Patients are usually sleepy, after a general anesthetic."

"Will he get sick?" Don queried. "Does that still happen?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm afraid so -- but that would be very bad, in this case. Vomiting would create too much pressure on his eyes." She saw the panic on Don's face, and hastened to reassure him. "The doctor added an anti-nausea medication to his IV," she said. "It's a much stronger dose than is standard, except in situations like this." She motioned to an insulated coffee cup she had brought into the room with her, and placed on Charlie's overbed table; it was full of ice chips. "He'll have a dry mouth and sore throat, from the tracheal tube. Ice chips should help, and not upset his stomach. If you need more, just use the call button."

"Thank you," Don said sincerely.

"You're welcome, young man," she answered. "If you get hungry, you can call the cafeteria and have something sent up." She glanced at Charlie, again. "Nothing for this one, though."

Don said that he understood, and the nurse left the room, promising to come back often to check on Charlie. Don had just settled in the chair next to his brother's bed when he heard a familiar and welcome rasp. "Ice?"

Don started a little, then reached for the cup. "You scared me, Buddy. Didn't know you were awake." He spooned some ice into Charlie's mouth. When it melted, Charlie opened his mouth for more, like a baby bird seeking sustenance. Don grinned and spooned a little more into his mouth. "Better not go too fast," he warned.

Charlie's good hand, complete with IV line, fluttered blindly toward his face; Don pulled it back down to the bed. "Eyes hurt," Charlie complained.

"Don't think about it," Don counseled. He glanced at the clock on the wall over Charlie's bed. "Dad and Amita land, soon -- Colby's picking them up at the airport and bringing them to the hospital. You should get some more rest while you can."

Charlie sighed, the exhale ending in a yawn. "I wish I could see Amita," he said wistfully. "Missed her."

"You'll see her soon," Don comforted.

A tightening around Charlie's lips testified of pain, both physical and spiritual. "Sort-of blind, here," he mumbled.

Don refused to entertain the notion that Charlie's condition was anything but temporary. "You won't be for long," he insisted. "Amita will look even more beautiful when you can see her again."

"Mmmm," Charlie murmured before yawning again. "M'arm's killing me," he slurred.

Don's hand was still on top of Charlie's good arm, and he rubbed his thumb over the surface. "You sure complain a lot," he teased gently. "Go to sleep, Charlie. I'll take care of everything."

Charlie didn't answer, but Don felt him relaxing into the bed. Still, he kept rubbing his thumb over Charlie's arm, speaking in low and soothing tones. "I'll sit right here with you, Buddy. Everything's gonna be fine."

* * *

End, Chapter 31


	32. Taking Names and Kicking Ass

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 32: Taking Names and Kicking Ass**

For many years, Chicago's O'Hare International had been the largest air terminal in the world. Don understood that it was a force to be reckoned with; still, Colby had been gone over three hours. Don was sorely tempted to use Charlie's hospital telephone to try to call somebody – if not everybody – but he checked his watch again, and talked himself into giving them another half-hour.

He had spoken to his father while Charlie was in surgery – Alan had called Colby's cell from the inflight phone; they had decided together that Alan should rent a vehicle at one of the airport kiosks after he and Amita landed; something the family could drive back to L.A. Since a car had not been previously reserved, that would take some time. Plus, Colby had to secure his own flight back to Los Angeles. Granger would stay here a few more days, help Staab tie up the Chicago end of the investigation, and then return to L.A., via Idaho – where he would have Sheriff Sam Jarrett provide a preliminary identification of the thugs who had shown up at Doris's campground looking for Don and Charlie.

Charlie had awoken twice more since his return from recovery. The first time, he had drifted off again after only one ice chip, without saying anything, but this time he seemed a little more alert. Don had some fresh ice chips waiting for him.

"Thanks," murmured Charlie after the first one melted its way down his throat.

Don spooned more ice into Charlie's mouth. "Just don't get used to this," he teased.

Charlie cleared his throat a little, and managed a complete sentence. "Are they here, yet?"

In spite of himself, Don sighed. "Nah. Dad was going to rent a van or something, for us to drive back to L.A., and follow Granger to the hospital. I just hope Colby didn't lose him between here and the airport."

The ghost of a smile curved Charlie's bruised mouth. "Amita will make him get something with a GPS."

"Hmpf," grunted Don noncommittally. He wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling, as far as Amita was concerned. He appreciated that Charlie loved her – they were going to get married! – but it offended his Big Brother sensibilities, knowing that the woman had violated Charlie's trust. They still didn't really know how Tuttle's men had found them – either in Idaho, or here, in Chicago. All they knew with certainty, at this point, was that Charlie had asked Amita not to trust _anyone_ – and she had ended up further endangering Charlie and Don by working with Colby and A.D. Wright, and then had endangered Alan and Robin by bringing them in on it.

He had only been without sight for a few hours, but already Charlie's ears were working overtime. He picked up his brother's ambivalence and changed the subject. "Don," he began, "back in that chemical plant…I ran into something…or someone…that's how I ended up splashed with acid?"

Don nodded, then remembered that Charlie couldn't see him. "Yeah, Buddy. I didn't see it, but from what Colby told me, it was close. You easily could have stumbled into that vat yourself, staggering around with your eyes swollen shut!"

"What I hit fell in, then?" Charlie persisted.

Don knew where _this_ conversation was going – and he wasn't looking forward to it. "Right," he hedged.

Charlie was silent for a few seconds before he finally asked, hesitantly. "What was it?" Don didn't answer right away, so he kept speaking. "I…fell, and snapped my arm. I think I yelled…but there was a lot of yelling. Screaming. Was that all me? Donny?"

Don scooted forward on his chair and placed his hand on top of Charlie's forearm, careful of the snaking IV lines. "It was a person," he answered quietly. "His balance was off, and Colby said you caught him right under the chin…"

Charlie shuddered. "My God. I pushed someone into the vat of acid? Who? Is he going to be all right?"

Don kept his voice level, and matter-of-fact. "Charlie, you couldn't even see; you didn't aim for the guy. Besides, he had just spent several hours beating you senseless – so nobody would blame you if you _had_ pushed him intentionally."

Charlie's voice broke, and Don was afraid tears were just around the corner. "If…if my legs are blistered, just from the splash…he must be in horrible pain. Horrible."

Don encircled Charlie's wrist with his hand, and switched to his SAC voice. "Stop. Stop it, Charlie. This is not good for your eyes. You did nothing wrong – _nothing_, do you hear me? You don't need to be thinking about Lew Spisak right now – concentrate on Amita."

A low groan from his brother made Don wonder if he was squeezing Charlie's wrist too hard, and he let go. "Lew," Charlie whispered. "He was the nice one. Fitz was creepy, and Mace was…Mace enjoyed his job. Jackie had to work hard to get a turn at me."

Don stared at Charlie, stunned. "You know their names?"

Charlie nodded. "I paid attention, when they talked to each other. I knew you would want to know."

Don's heart swelled with pride and ached with a heavy pain at the same time. His little brother…his geeky little twerp of a brother…terrified, tortured – and taking names and kicking ass. Charlie was more than a gutsy dude – he was damned impressive. "Did you ever hear anybody say Tuttle's name?" he wondered.

Charlie shook his head slightly. "No," he answered sadly. "They referred to 'the boss' a few times. Was Lew badly burned?"

Don lightly touched Charlie's arm, again. "He inhaled, when he started screaming – while he was still in the vat."

Charlie shuddered again. "He inhaled," he echoed quietly. He was silent for a few seconds. "He's dead, then. I killed him."

Don shook his head. "No," he said emphatically. "Not unless you filled that vat with acid, kidnapped yourself and hit yourself repeatedly in the face, until your own eyes would not open any more. Lew Spisak signed his own death warrant, when he went to work for J. Everett Tuttle." Charlie did not respond, either with word or with action, so Don continued. "The Charlie Eppes I'm proud to call my brother? All he did was save my life, and sacrifice his own happiness to help me. I owe you everything, Buddy; _everything_. You're my freakin' hero, you know that?"

Charlie's lips curled in a smile. "Is a _freakin' hero_ anything like Batman?"

* * *

Audrey Montague's hand shook as she leaned over the interrogation table and allowed Special Agent Ross McGellar to light her cigarette. When he had finished, she inhaled deeply and sat back, glancing at Nikki Betancourt and wincing slightly at the obvious distaste on the agent's face. "I don't know what you're talking about," Audrey insisted, moving her eyes back to McGellar. "I left the business details up to my husband; Mr. Tuttle is an old college friend of his. They were in…"

Nikki leaned back in her own chair, on the opposite side of the table, and interrupted. Her tone was sarcastic, and disbelieving. "…the same fraternity," she said. "Yeah; we got that. Tell us something we don't know."

Audrey took another drag off her cigarette, then tapped it on the edge of the empty coffee mug McGellar had given her to use as an ashtray. Smoking in interrogation was not technically allowed; he was bending the rules for her, and she couldn't help but feel grateful toward him – even though she knew it was probably a calculated ploy to set himself up as _the good cop_. "Jim wanted to help me invest the money my brother was awarded after his accident," she said. "Mark might linger in a vegetative state for years; as his power of attorney, I need to ensure that he has sufficient finances to cover his medical needs for an indefinite time."

"We've pulled your marriage license," McGellar said almost apologetically. "Your maiden name was 'Paris'?"

Audrey gave up on the cigarette and stubbed it out in the bottom of the ceramic mug. "I wasn't yet a year old when my mother married David Vincent," she explained. "My biological father contacted me only five times when I was a child – but still, he refused to allow David to adopt me. Mark was born when I was almost eight; we were inseparable until I left for college ten years later. Even then, he would come to the city to spend weekends with me; I would make trips home as much to see him as to see my parents." She cleared her throat. "They were…killed in an automobile accident, the year before Mark's injury. I was the only one left to take care of Mark, and it's a responsibility I take very seriously." She allowed her eyes to fill with tears. "If Jim has done something wrong and somehow involved Mark…"

Nikki crossed her arms over her chest and snickered. "You poor thing," she said, her sarcasm as thick as peanut butter. "Should I get you a tissue?"

Audrey's eyes flashed with anger as she glared at Nikki. "I'm speaking to you voluntarily, without an attorney, telling you everything I know!"

Nikki turned her head to look at McGellar with comically round eyes, in an obvious display of false emotion. "Imagine that. The assistant state's attorney is speaking to us without counsel. What a show of faith."

McGellar shook his head sadly, staring at Audrey Montague. "I'd like to believe you, Ma'am, I really would. You seem like a nice person…and you wouldn't be the first wife whose husband took advantage of her…"

"That's right!" Audrey interjected, tossing a furious glance at Nikki.

McGellar sighed, leaning back in his chair and raising both hands slightly in defeat. "I just can't make the attempt on Ms. Brooks' life fit the scenario."

"_I told you!"_ Audrey protested over Nikki's soft snicker. "My husband told me that Agent Eppes was a rogue agent, and that Brooks was working with him! Jim warned me to watch out for her; he even brought me the gun! He knew I'd have difficulty getting a weapon past ground-floor security, so he brought it in himself." She concentrated an earnest gaze directly at McGellar. "The night before…the incident…he told me that he was more worried about Brooks than ever; he said the net was tightening around Eppes, and he wasn't sure how far she'd go to protect him. He _begged_ me to take some time off until he had Eppes under wraps. That's why I stayed late that night – I was trying to clear my schedule. Brooks' actions towards me were aggressive, and I thought she was trying to kill me!"

"Hmpf," Nikki said, allowing disgust to color her tone. "That ain't the story she tells."

Audrey forced herself to look the female agent in the eye. "I admit now that I was no doubt influenced – even deliberately led astray – by my husband's warnings. If what you say is true, he and Mr. Tuttle have been stealing millions from dozens of innocent people, and using me and my poor brother to hide their illicit gains. I'll do everything I can to help you put them **both** behind bars."

Robin Brooks stood in the observation room, watching the performance through the one-way glass. The elbow of her left arm, which was vertical to her body, rested in her right hand, which was crossed horizontally over her abdomen. The forefinger of her left hand was in her mouth, and she was chewing her fingernail nervously.

She didn't like the way this was going at all.

* * *

Charlie was asleep, again -- and Don was close to dozing off in the chair himself -- when the door of Charlie's hospital room burst inward and Amita fairly flew into the room. She was closely followed by Alan; while Amita raced to Charlie's bed, and then stood over it in silent consternation, rendered into silence by Charlie's appearance, Alan put his hands on Don's biceps and started pulling him out of the chair. "Come here, son," he begged, and Don found that he was happy to comply. He returned his father's hug with enthusiasm, focusing on Colby, standing back by the door, and doing his best not to cry. That would be a surefire way to severely crack his _tough guy_ image, he was certain.

Eventually Alan released him and stepped back -- but only far enough to sandwich Don's face between his hands. The father's eyes searched the son's. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Don smiled. "I'm fine," he assured his father. When Alan finally dropped his hands, Don let his gaze wander to Charlie in the bed. "Chuck's had better days, though."

Alan turned to more fully face his youngest, and saw Amita frozen at the side of the bed. He moved to stand behind her. "Is he...sleeping?" he murmured.

"I don't know," she whispered. She glanced at Don. "How do you tell?"

Don felt his anger toward Amita surge within him. "You could _ask_," he snapped. Amita blushed, and Alan looked at him with a question in his eyes. Don ignored them both and moved a few feet until he stood at the opposite side of Charlie's bed. He carefully laid his hand on Charlie's arm and leaned slightly over the railing. "Charlie? You awake? Amita and Dad are here." Charlie did not respond, but Don knew how anxious he was to be reunited with his family, so he jostled his brother's arm. "Charlie!" he said, a little more loudly.

He still wasn't used to not seeing Charlie's eyes jerk open, but he felt his brother's body tense under his hand. "Wha?" mumbled Charlie, trying to lift his good arm so that he could explore the dark space surrounding him. "Don?"

Don grinned, unaware that his thumb rubbed comforting circles on Charlie's forearm. "Hey," he greeted. "You awake, now?" He reached for the cup of ice with his free hand. "Want some more ice chips?"

Charlie yawned, turning his head slightly into the pillow. "When can I have pizza?" he countered, the pillow muffling the words a little. Still, everyone heard them -- and the room was soon resounding with the soft chuckles of more than one individual. Charlie straightened his head on the pillow. "Dad?" he asked hopefully. "Amita?"

The sound of Charlie's voice served to pull Amita from her trance, and she leaned over to brush Charlie's stubbled cheek with her lips. "I'm here, lover," she whispered into his ear. "It's all over, now. Everything will be fine, now." Tears filled her eyes when she looked up, smiling, at Alan. Don saw, and told himself that she did love Charlie, that she had been in a difficult position -- through no fault of her own -- and had done what she thought was best. His internal monologue was unconvincing, though.

He let go of Charlie's arm, allowing his brother to reach frantically for Amita, and avoided his father's eyes as he grabbed the cup of ice from the bedside table and turned toward the door. "This is half-melted," he muttered. "You guys spend some time with Charlie; I'll go find some more ice." Without waiting for a response, Don strode purposefully away from the bed. Colby exchanged a look with Alan, and then followed Don down the hall.

* * *

Chicago SAC Bob Staab tapped a pen on top of the closed file folder in front of him, and looked at Jackie Carotta impassively. "There's no payoff in holding out on us; we've got it all right here."

Carotta sneered. " 'Zat a fact, fed?"

Staab let the pen clatter to the top of the interrogation-room-table. "You're a long-time employee of J. Everett Tuttle. _Security division_, I would wager?"

Carotta didn't so much as blink. "So what if I am? Is the economy real good out here in Chi-town – or y'all ever hear of 'moonlighting'?"

Staab exchanged a brief glance with the fellow agent sitting in on the interrogation, then leaned almost imperceptibly closer to Carotta. "You saying somebody else sent you after the Eppes brothers?"

Carotta's smile was as serene and satisfied as DaVinci's Mona Lisa's. He settled comfortably in his chair. "I'm saying," he intoned mildly, "that I invoke. Attorney."

Staab tried another tack. "The California and Illinois justice departments are already working on your extradition. You'll be back in L.A. by the end of the week. I'm sure your personal attorney will meet you there."

"Then that," announced Carotta, "is the next time I will speak."

_Shit_, thought Staab.

_This wasn't going well at all._

* * *

Colby pulled at Don's arm when they started to pass an alcove waiting area. "Let's give them a few minutes," he suggested.

Don slowed, hesitated, and then turned into the alcove. He sank into an overstuffed chair, sat the cup of melting ice on a low tabletop overflowing with magazines, and scowled at Colby. "Took you long enough to get here," he accused.

Granger negotiated the minefield that was Don Eppes on a bad day. "The flight was almost 20 minutes late, and then there was a line at the rental counter. Amita and I finally left your dad there, and went down to wait in baggage claim. By the time we had both of their bags, Alan had joined us."

"Mmmm." Don's noise was nondescript, distracted.

Colby pressed ahead, having not blown off his legs yet. "Yeah. Well, he did a good job, picking out the car. Got a fully loaded van; Charlie can lie down, or you can just recline one of the seats for him. DVD, GPS, FBI consultant; all the initials you could want!" he teased.

Don sighed, and absently rubbed the back of his neck. "I wonder how long it will take us to get back to L.A.?" he asked. "Charlie probably won't be up to a lot of 10- or 12-hour days."

Colby gazed somewhere over Don's head. "I think it's about 2,000 miles," he mused. "If you average, say, 300 miles a day, you can make it in 6.6 days."

He lowered his eyes to find Don grinning at him. "Charlie been tutoring you?"

Granger reddened. "Shut-up. I'll have you know I studied calculus in college."

"Successfully?" Don niggled.

Colby grinned and rolled both his eyes -- and the dice. "So what was going on back there?"

Don leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "That obvious, huh?" Colby just lifted an eyebrow. Don sighed again. "I just keep wondering how those guys found us -- twice -- and thinking about how Amita out-and-out _lied_ to Charlie. He begged her not to tell anyone she was in contact with us; not only did she tell half of L.A., she lied to him and promised she wouldn't."

Colby placed one foot directly on a submerged mine. "You're not that pissed at _me_," he pointed out. Then a thought occurred to him. "Or, are you?"

Don attempted a wry smile. "I don't plan to marry you, Granger. There should be a deeper level of trust when a relationship goes there, don't you think?"

Colby _did_ think -- and then jumped onto the mine with both feet. "Maybe for normal people," he argued. "But us law enforcement types? Hell, Eppes, how much more can you trust someone, after you've trusted them with your life?" Don just looked at Colby blankly, obviously considering the question. Colby stood and looked toward the corridor. "I'm just saying; I think you should give Amita a little credit." He wandered toward the hall-proper, looking first left, then right. "Where do we go for pizza?"

* * *

End, Chapter 32


	33. Through a Glass, Darkly

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 33: Through a Glass Darkly**

Charlie shivered slightly as the wheelchair was whisked through the halls, and the resulting air movement crept in around his hospital gown. He knew Amita was there next to him; even though he couldn't see her, he could hear the faint sounds; the soft pad of her shoes, the occasional rustle of clothing. After two days without sight, his ears were already becoming more sensitive. The wheelchair came to a halt, and he felt Amita's hand on his arm, soft and warm. "You're here," she said. "Your dad and -,"

"Just Dad, please," came Alan's voice from somewhere in front of him.

He could sense Amita's answering smile, could hear it in her voice as she corrected herself. "Dad and Don are here – I think Dad's going in with you." He could hear a door open, to his right.

"I'm going in, too," came Don's voice.

Another voice came from the right, and Charlie recognized it as one of his doctors - his ophthalmologist, Dr. Colleen Boen. "That's all right," she said, and her voice made Charlie wonder if she looked as sexy as she sounded. "You can all come in – anyone who is going to have some role in helping Charlie should hear this."

The wheelchair started to move again and Charlie strained to hear a response, but there was none, although he could hear the collective shuffle as the others filed in behind the wheelchair. It was moved to a spot a few feet inside the office. Charlie felt a slight shift as the orderly applied the brake, and then the pad of the man's soft-soled shoes receding as he left the room.

"We can leave you right in the wheelchair while we remove the bandages," said Dr. Boen. Her voice was warm and comforting, but Charlie tensed.

The bandages had driven him crazy ever since he'd regained consciousness after the surgery, as had his eyes. His eyes alternately ached and felt scratchy, as though he had sand in them, and at times, stabbing pains, almost unbearable, would shoot through them like lightening bolts. At first, he was glad the bandages were there – he'd had a hard time keeping his hands from his eyes, and was afraid he might rub them in his sleep. After a while, however, the bandages felt confining, and left him with a vague sense of claustrophobia. He'd been dying to get them off, and finally the time was here. He'd get to see again…

"Just relax. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them," said Dr. Boen, and he felt gentle hands undoing the wrappings that held the bandages over his eyes in place. Cool air hit his eyelids, but he kept them shut as instructed, until the doctor said, "Okay, Charlie, open your eyes."

He opened them slowly, and blinked. His eyes were still swollen; he realized; he couldn't open his eyelids all the way. He opened and closed them, trying to clear his vision, then blinked again, and again, until he realized that what he saw wasn't going to change. His heart dropped.

He was staring at what appeared to be a set of counters and drawers attached to the opposite wall, but they were blurry and dark. He felt as though he were looking into a dim, tinted mirror that had imperfections in its surface, and he felt suddenly dizzy. Something moved in front of him when he shifted his head, and it gave him a sense of vertigo. A white lab coat was stationed just to the right of the drawers, but he didn't dare look up at the doctor's face; he was afraid to move his head. Something was wrong, something was detached inside…

"Relax," said Dr. Boen. "If you see something moving, those are the gas bubbles we inserted in your eyes. You'll learn to see through and around them, and they will dissipate in time."

Charlie moved his head again, slightly, experimentally, and the bubble in each eye moved with it. '_That's odd_,' he thought to himself, '_there is one in each eye, but it looks like only one_.' It was similar to looking through a carpenter's level, and he relaxed just slightly. Okay, so that was normal. But why was it so dim?

"I have the lights turned down," said Dr. Boen, as if reading his mind. "We want your eyes to adjust to light gradually. I'm going to turn up the dimmer switch, just a bit at a time, until we get close to a normal light level. Each new level may make your eyes hurt for a second or two, until they adjust. I want you to tell me when it's okay to move up."

The room brightened slightly, and Charlie felt a twinge in his eyes, but it wasn't bad, so he said, "Okay." He cautiously turned his head to the right, where Dr. Boen had moved to stand next to the switch, trying to get a glimpse of his father, brother, and Amita, and although he could sense them, he couldn't see them. '_They must be behind me_, _trying to stay out of the doctor's way,_' he thought to himself, and then winced as the light came up a bit more. He looked at Dr. Boen; her figure was blurry, but it was still dark in the room, he told himself. It would get better…

It got brighter, but it didn't get better. When Dr. Boen had adjusted the light to what she stated was slightly under a normal indoor level of lumens, she came to stand in front of him again. Charlie cocked his head until the bubble adjusted, so he could see her face. He got a vague, blurry impression of kind eyes and a mouth curved in a smile, but that was as much detail as he could make out.

"I take it you can see me," said Dr. Boen. "You're making eye contact."

Charlie swallowed. He could barely see her lips moving when she talked, and fear and a sense of dejection gripped his heart. Was this it –was this as good as it would get? It was – terrible. He could barely see to navigate about a room. He'd never be able to drive, to see his students' faces in the lecture halls, hell; he probably couldn't even make out a raised hand. "It's very – blurry," he said, his voice soft, and hoarse with disappointment.

"That's normal," said Dr. Boen. "Your eyes are still healing, and you have weeks of healing to go. Plus, the gas bubble will persist for several days." She looked up, over his head, to where the others were standing silently behind him. "Why don't you all come and stand in front of him, and let him get a look at you. I imagine he's dying to do that. I could turn him, but there's more room in front of him here."

Charlie heard them moving, but kept facing forward. Every time his head moved, he felt dizzy, so he didn't try to look until they were right there, in front of him. Amita knelt, and his father and Don stood behind her. He looked into Amita's face, and breathed just a bit easier. Her features were still very blurry, but he could make out her expression. She was smiling, and as dim and fuzzy as the picture was; she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. An answering smile rose to his lips, and he was suddenly filled with emotion. "Hi," he said, grinning at her stupidly; he was too giddy to think of anything else.

"Hi," she answered back softly, then pulled him into a gentle hug. As she released him, he looked up. His father and Don were much harder to see – not their figures, but their expressions. Even a few feet of extra distance made a big difference, apparently. Alan was smiling – he thought – and Don was not; Charlie could make that out for sure.

"His eyes are still pretty swollen. Is it normal for them to be so red?" Don asked, and Charlie could hear the concern in his voice.

"Yes," said Dr. Boen, "I'm sorry; I should have warned you of that. The conjunctiva, the white part of the eye, will be very red for a few days, but the redness should fade. If it does not, or the conjunctiva becomes swollen or he feels increasing pain or irritation, he should try an ice pack, and if that does not reduce the swelling or the symptoms worsen, he should see a doctor immediately. I understand that you'll be leaving the area – you'll need to take him to the nearest hospital, if that occurs. Ditto, if his vision seems to be decreasing."

She looked at Charlie. "It will be normal to have some problems, however. Your depth perception will probably be off, and that and the movement of the gas bubble may make you dizzy. You will need help walking, and most likely, eating, for the first few days. You should not stand or walk by yourself until you are cleared to so by your doctor in L.A. I am going to send some referrals with your family, and on the way there, you should pick a doctor and make an appointment for as soon as you get back."

"You will need to wear sunglasses during the day, and eye patches at night, to protect your eyes. I am also prescribing eye drops to prevent infection and reduce inflammation; they are a must." She looked at Alan. "You'll need to pick a route back that skirts the mountains. Because of the bubbles in his eye, he not only needs to avoid air travel, he should also avoid any high elevation. Also, no strenuous activity; and no lifting. I'm going to do a baseline exam to assess his vision; it will take a few moments. If you don't have any questions for me, I'd appreciate it if you wait outside. And don't worry, we'll send a complete set of written instructions with you."

Amita gave Charlie's arm a quick squeeze and rose, as Alan said, "No, thank you, doctor, you've been very thorough." He pumped Dr. Boen's hand. "Thank you for everything." He turned toward Charlie. "We'll see you outside, son."

They filed off through the doorway to the right and Charlie watched them leave, unaware that Dr. Boen's eyes had narrowed as she assessed the angle of his head. He turned back to look at her as she said, "Okay, Charlie, look at that chart in front of you on the wall. Can you make out any of the letters?"

Charlie squinted. He could tell it was a standard eye chart; he could make out a few black blobs at the top, which degenerated into blurry grayness further down the chart. That blob at the top – was it an 'E?' Wasn't there an 'E' at the top of most eye charts? Was he really seeing it, or just remembering what he'd seen before? "I think that's an 'E" at the top," he said.

"Okay," said Dr. Boen. "Can you make out any of the letters below it?"

Charlie stared at the black blobs. "No."

"Okay, that's about par for the course," said Dr. Boen, cheerfully. She pulled a chair forward and shone a light in each of Charlie's eyes, staring through the pupil to the inside. "Everything looks normal for this point in time."

She proceeded to run him through an eye exam, tested his eye movement, peripheral vision, and assessed the amount of correction needed with an ophthalmoscope, starting with his left eye. After several adjustments, she was able to dial in the strength needed for Charlie to see the first two lines of the eye chart under the E with his left eye, and jotted down some numbers on a chart. When she flipped a cover over the left and moved on to the right, Charlie blinked, and tried to reposition his head so he was looking through the hole properly. He could see nothing but a gray blur.

"Okay, Charlie," said Dr. Boen, flipping lenses, "is it better with the first lens, or second?"

"I – uh – both are pretty blurry."

She made some adjustments. "How about now?"

"Not much better."

"Can you sense light?"

"I – uh -,"

"In other words, does it look gray, or black?"

"Gray."

She went through several adjustments, keeping her voice smooth and professionally upbeat, but Charlie could hear an undercurrent of concern start to creep into it. Finally, she sighed, and pulled the ophthalmoscope away from his face. "Well, vision in your right eye is not what I would hope for, but it _is_ early. That eye did sustain more damage, and there is more swelling. It probably is simply behind the other in terms of healing, at this point. What this means, however, is that you are relying on just your left eye for most of your vision right now – it will significantly affect your depth perception, and that means it's more imperative that you allow others to help you. You should not walk by yourself under any condition, and you may find even small tasks difficult for awhile – even the simple task of eating."

Charlie stared at her. "It will improve though – right?"

"Oh, yes," she said confidently. "Both eyes will improve, but it will take time. You need to be patient, and follow instructions." She turned on her stool, and when she swiveled back, she held out a pair of dark sunglasses, with dark frames. "These are prescription sunglasses. You will definitely need to wear these outdoors, and you will even need them indoors, at first. You'll find when you leave this room, that the lighting in here, as much as I increased it, is still much less than what is in the hallway, or your hospital room. I'd like you to wear these in the daytime, starting now."

Charlie took the glasses from her and stared at the black frames. Because his left arm was newly casted and in a sling, he was one-handed, so she helped him slip them on his face. The lenses darkened the room, but then it lightened again somewhat as Dr. Boen rose and turned the light up to its full capacity. Still, it was like living in perpetual twilight – blurred by fog. Dr. Boen handed Charlie a hand mirror, with a grin. "Take a look."

Charlie stared at himself in the mirror. A blurry pale image looked back at him, topped by the darker blur of his curls and the blackness of his lenses and frames. "I look like Ray Charles," he said.

Dr. Boen threw her head back and laughed, an attractive, throaty sound. "No – just Charles. Let's get you back to your room."

* * *

They released Charlie early the next morning. He really didn't need to be held another night, but Don suspected that they were extending his stay on purpose, to give him just a bit more recovery time before the trip. His eye surgeon had waited to sign off on his release until that morning. Colby had already departed on a flight back to L.A., just an hour earlier. Don had to admit, he was a bit envious of Colby's relatively short fuss-free flight; he was unnerved by the prospect of the long car trip – and the fact that Charlie was still convalescing.

It was clear that Charlie's vision wasn't good; he was nearly helpless, groping for things - like his spoon on the hospital tray at dinner the evening before – things that were right in front of him. He was extremely dizzy every time he stood, and as Don found when he helped him navigate to the bathroom, he was apparently weak, and judging from the prominence of his ribs under the hospital gown, still underweight. To make matters worse, a final chest X-ray still showed traces of pneumonia – just traces, the pulmonary specialist assured them, but that brought on a new set of requirements for the trip. They wanted Charlie to lie partially upright, and to breathe periodically into a portable breathing apparatus, and to prevent blood clots in his legs, he needed to walk every hour.

The prior evening, Dr. Colleen Boen and Charlie's eye surgeon had conferred quietly with Alan in the hall, and his father had come back into Charlie's room with an expression so bland that Don knew he was hiding something. When Don confronted him about in the hall later, Alan shrugged. "They basically said his vision isn't great," he said. "They said that's normal for this point in time."

Don's eyes narrowed and he studied his father for a moment, but when Alan looked back at him directly, he dropped his gaze. "I think it's too soon," he muttered. "He should stay in the hospital longer."

Alan sighed. "I'm afraid I agree with you there, but the doctors think it's okay for him to go. They've given me a list of doctors along our route in case we need to have him looked at, but they don't think he'll have any more issues than he would if he stayed here. Besides, I think Charlie's more than ready to leave – and I'm sure you are, too." He raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter, you don't want go home?" His tone was light and he smiled a little, but Don had the impression that he was being scrutinized.

'_And maybe I should be scrutinized,_' he thought to himself, as Charlie was wheeled out to the waiting van the next morning. His thin shoulders were hunched in his T-shirt, and even the imposing dark glasses did nothing to dispel the aura of vulnerability that surrounded him. "_I should have my head examined – what the hell was I thinking, bringing him into this_?" Don watched, guilt settling in gut, as Amita climbed into the van and held out a hand to guide Charlie in, and Charlie stood shakily, and with Alan's help, somehow managed to clamber inside and navigate into the nearest seat. Don suddenly felt eyes on him, and he turned to see Dr. Colleen Boen watching, so he shook himself and straightened with a smile. He held out his hand. "Thanks, doc, for everything."

Her keen, long-lashed eyes assessed him. "Don't mention it. Amita has my number in her cell phone – if any of you have questions, you can call me, anytime, day or night."

Don eyes strayed to the figure in the van seat, and he thought, '_Yeah, I have a question. He's gonna see okay again, right?_' but all he said was, "Okay, thanks doc, we will."

He strode around the van to the driver's seat and got in, then turned and shot Charlie a grin as Alan shut the back door of the van, and got in the passenger side. "Hey there, bro, you're really rockin' those shades."

Charlie sent him a weak grin in return. "Yeah, right. Just drive, okay? I want to go home."

Don turned forward and reached for the ignition. "No problem. It's just what? Two thousand miles? We'll be there in no time."

It was actually 2,130 miles – Don had checked out the route on a computer the night before. The shortest route was through Denver, but they weren't going that way – that would subject Charlie to higher elevation than was allowed. Instead, they were going south through St. Louis, Oklahoma City, and Phoenix, lengthening a route that was already too long.

* * *

Ralph Nardek glanced over his shoulder, and spoke quietly into the prepaid cell phone. He was standing on the edge of a plaza in downtown L.A., filled with benches and trees; it was busy at lunchtime, but was empty this early in the morning. The traffic noise on the surrounding street lent additional privacy. "Yeah, Soames – this is it – you have the go-ahead. Did you do your recon?"

A gravelly voice came over the line. "_Yeah. I got a line on 'em now – they're in a van. Headed south on I-55, toward St. Louis. Both brothers, a woman, and an old man_."

"Okay. They're headed back to L.A. – now that you know they're heading south, you know they'll be taking 44 out of St. Louis. It'll be hard to lose 'em."

There was a snort on the other end. "_It's gonna be impossible to lose 'em. The agent is takin' his time, and they stop every hour an' let his invalid of a brother out for a stroll_."

"Just be patient," advised Nardek. "Wait until you're out away from a city - you get them in some remote hotel some night, do 'em, and get the hell out. And don't forget – if you're caught, somehow, and need to cut a deal, Jim Montague was the one who gave the order for the hit."

"_I ain't gonna get caught, but I hear ya. I gotta go – they're pullin' off the road again."_

The line disconnected, and Ralph Nardek deleted the record of the call from his prepaid cell, glanced around once more, and walked three blocks to a mall entrance. He entered, and just inside, stepped over to a bank of pay phones, selected one, and dialed, all the while scanning the relatively empty space around him to make sure it stayed that way. When J. Everett Tuttle's voice came on the line, Nardek said, "Mr. Tuttle. This is Allen Landscaping. I hired a new gardener for you, sir; he said he'd take care of your weeds."

Tuttle's voice was smooth. "Thank you, I appreciate that. They were getting to be quite annoying. Your old crew simply wasn't handling the issue."

"I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again. He'll start work today." Ralph Nardek smiled, and hung up the phone.

* * *

End, Chapter 33


	34. Feeling Up To It

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 34: Feeling Up to It**

They stopped the first night in Eureka, Missouri. It was on the southwest side of St. Louis off I-44, a few miles outside of town, and the area boasted a large amusement park. Although Eureka itself was tiny, there were several hotels there to accommodate the guests of the park, and since it was the third week in July, many of them were full. They ended up paying more than they wanted at a pricier hotel than they needed, but it was clear that after over six hours, Charlie had had all that he could take for the day.

Alan found himself wishing they'd brought a wheelchair; Charlie appeared exhausted, and it was a fair walk through the lobby and down a section of hallway to an elevator, and from there to their rooms. Not to mention the fact that Charlie still appeared dizzy, and was having difficulty navigating. They had decided in the car that Don and Alan would share a room, and Charlie and Amita another, and by the time they reached the rooms, both Don and Alan had a hand on Charlie's arms. They drew curious stares from a family clad in bathing suits, on their way to the pool. "Here it is," said Amita, as they approached the door, and she slipped the plastic card in the door to unlock it.

"I can make it," mumbled Charlie, trying to disengage his arms, but Alan kept a firm grip until Charlie sank onto one of the beds. They got his feet up, and he lay back with a sigh of exhaustion or relief, Alan couldn't tell which. "Don and I will go back down for luggage," he told Amita. "You stay here with Charlie."

She nodded. "I'll take a look at the room service menu. It'll be a lot easier to eat in the room."

Alan followed Don out, closed the door, and ran a hand over his face with a sigh. The mood in the van had been anything but cheery; Amita had tried to keep conversation going, but it was an uphill battle, being fought by only the two of them. Don had been silent, brooding at the wheel, and he'd refused to give Alan a turn at driving. Alan suspected it gave him a reason not to talk, not to acknowledge the very large elephant that was riding along in the van with them - the fact that it was clear that Charlie was nearly blind.

Charlie was also quiet, but it was a subdued, almost beaten, silence. His youngest son wasn't above pouting when things didn't go his way, but this was way beyond that – there was no sulking, no irritation in his demeanor. There was something else, instead, but Alan hadn't been able to figure it out, had finally given up trying, and had ridden in silence himself. He shook his head as he followed Don back out to the van to get the luggage. It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

"Do you want some water?"

Charlie heard Amita's voice, and opened his eyes. There was just one source of light in the room – a lamp, and his infernal sunglasses were hurting his head, rubbing behind his ears, so he reached up with his good hand and slipped them off. Even though the light was dim, he winced, and Amita was immediately by his side. "You should leave those on," she chided him. "The doctor said to wear them during the day."

He scowled a little, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. "They're bugging me," he said irritably. He focused on her face, a beautiful blur just inches from his, and his frown softened. "Besides, it's not too bright in here." He gazed up at her – with the glasses off, was her image just a bit clearer than yesterday? – and realized that he'd automatically tilted his head so that he could see around the gas bubbles in his eyes, without thinking about it. He was adjusting, slowly, and his vision seemed to be improving, or did it?

She rose from the bed and stepped over to the table to get the room service menu. It was a dim blob across the room, but as she brought it closer, Charlie could see it was rectangular – laminated cardboard, he surmised, and he could detect colors. "Let me see it," he demanded, and she hesitated.

"It's – uh- pretty fine print," she hedged, and Charlie could sense her reluctance. He held out his hand anyway, and she slowly handed him the menu, guiding it into his good hand, and hovered anxiously as he put it up to his face.

He wasn't sure what he was hoping for – perhaps that he could make out some of the menu items, maybe some pictures, maybe just some of the larger headings. It was disappointing – by holding the menu right up to his good eye, he could make out the largest words on the page, those that said 'Room Service' at the top, and even then, he wondered if he would have been able to determine what they were if he hadn't known what it was beforehand. 'Just like the E on the eye chart,' he thought to himself, and with a sigh, handed the menu back to her.

He expected her to look at it, but instead, he felt her move, and suddenly her face was right there, close, her lips brushing his. "I'm actually not that hungry," she murmured, and brushed his lips again, and then kissed him, gently. In spite of his fatigue and the lurking fear in the pit of his stomach, he responded, pulling her head toward his and kissing her deeply. The scent, the feel of her after so long, was a sudden assault on his senses; he felt his heart quicken, and groaned softly at the wave of arousal that swept through him. She immediately pulled back. "Are you okay?" she asked anxiously, and he noted with satisfaction that her breathing was as deep as his was.

"Better than I've been in days," he assured her, and smiled for only the second time that day. He could just make out her answering grin, as he reached for her.

She leaned forward and kissed him again, lightly, trying to defuse the passion that hung heavy in the air between them. "Better calm down, there, lover," she said with a smile, and brushed his lips again. "Dr. Boen said 'no exercise.'"

Charlie kissed her again before she pulled away. "No strenuous exercise," he corrected her. "And since when is sex exercise?"

She looked at him. "I would think it is; at least the way we do it, most of the time." They stared at each other for a moment, hungrily. "Do you think we should ask her?"

Charlie grinned again. "You've got her cell phone number - she said we could call, any time, with questions."

He could almost make out her blush. "I can't ask her that! You ask her."

"Just text her – she won't know which one of us is asking," countered Charlie. "Plus, we won't have to actually speak to her."

"Okay," said Amita, doubtfully, pulling out her cell phone. "Let's see – _Hi Doctor Boen, we have a question_." She typed in the message and hit 'send.' "She's texting back- 'Okay, what is it?'" She looked at him. "What should I say?"

"Ask her if sex is okay."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," muttered Amita, and Charlie could hear the light click of her phone keypad. "She's answering back -," Amita broke off, giggling. "She says that personally, she thinks sex is great."

Charlie chuckled, but then Amita said with a rueful tone, "But then she says, 'but just not for you, yet. Three more days, and then if you're feeling – up to it." In spite of the disappointment, they both laughed, and Charlie realized that it was the first time he had done that, in days.

Amita leaned forward and kissed him again. "I've waited this long," she murmured, "I suppose I can wait three more days."

* * *

A few hours later, Don followed his father back to their room. They'd all eaten together in Charlie and Amita's room and turned on the television to catch the news, hoping for an update on the case. There was nothing, but Don hadn't even been sure there would be; he had no idea if Wright or Tompkins had allowed any press releases. As the newscaster droned on, Don found his eyes straying to the figure in the bed. Charlie lay there motionless, with his cast on his stomach, his dark eyes half-open. In the relative dimness, Don couldn't see what they looked like, but they appeared unnaturally dark, and he knew the whites were probably still blood red. He was looking toward the television, but Don wondered how much he could see. Not much, judging from his lack of ability to navigate on their stops earlier that day. His brother was in essence blind, at least temporarily, _hopefully_ temporarily, and it was his fault.

He was suddenly taken by the urge to get out of there; he needed to find out what was going on with the case – he needed to know that the bastards who were behind this were going down. He rose, and Alan shot him a glance. "Just need to stand," said Don, lamely. "I'm tired of sitting."

So he stood – in the corner, then over by the bathroom, then by the dresser, then back in the corner, until Alan finally said to Charlie and Amita, "Well, if you two want to get situated, perhaps we'll get back to our room."

'Getting situated' meant getting Charlie up and to the bathroom and back, and making sure he got his eye drops, his breathing treatment and his eye patches. Don had thought he was done, when Charlie quietly requested a pain pill – apparently, his eyes were hurting, and that put Don's twisted gut into even a tighter knot. He stewed as they left the room, wondering what the pain meant. Was Charlie developing complications? What if his eyesight got worse instead of better?

He followed Alan into the room, and just stood for a moment.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Don came out of his reverie to find that his father had settled into an armchair, and was regarding him with one of his looks – the look that said he knew what was on Don's mind, but was asking anyway, to be polite. Don glanced at him, then looked away. "I need to call in, see how the investigation's going," he mumbled. "It's two hours earlier in L.A. I'm going to take a walk." Alan's expression said that he didn't buy the excuse, but he remained silent, and Don slipped out of the room before his father could ask another question.

He made his way outside, and found relative solitude in the parking lot. It was a soft warm summer night, and insects, white dots against the darkness, swarmed the parking area lights. 'Two hours earlier' meant 7:00 p.m. in L.A., but David was still in the office. Don couldn't help but feel his lip curl in a one-sided smile as he heard the familiar voice, and again felt a surge of gratitude that none of his team had been involved in this. "David. So, how's it goin'?"

"_Good_," came the warm response. "_I hear you guys are on your way back. That's good_. _It's good to talk to you, man. _ _How's Charlie doing?"_

Don's smile dimmed. "Okay – he's got a lot of healing to do, but we made it through our first day. Look, uh, how's the case coming?"

David's voice was wry. "_Okay – now that we're allowed to work on it again. You know we were all pulled off – Montague's orders to Wright. Except Wright and Colby kept working it - of course, you know that_." David's voice sounded carefully neutral as he spoke the last sentence – too neutral – and Don frowned.

"Yeah. Colby got back okay?"

"_Yeah, he got in this morning. We're sending him packing, again, though – up to Idaho. We're going to have him get statements and descriptions of the men who came after you from the sheriff, Sam Jarrett. Where are you?"_

"Just outside of St. Louis. I figure at this rate, it's gonna take us a week to get back there. Six hours or so at a stretch seem to be Charlie's limit. I'll probably be bugging you for updates every evening."

David chuckled softly. "_No problem. Well, we've got Jim Montague wrapped up, no problem. He's being held without bail – so is Audrey Montague, but I think she's going to make bail tomorrow_."

Don's jaw dropped. "What? Why?"

"_That's not the worst of it. We weren't able to hold Tuttle at all – his lawyer got him out on bail the first night. Tuttle's claiming that Montague had a man hack into his computer system, and used one of his businesses, called Illusion Corp,. to process money that was stolen in the electronic thefts you uncovered. Tuttle's claiming it was all Montague – that he had no knowledge of it – that Montague used him. The problem is, we're having a hard time coming up with any evidence to the contrary_."

"What do you mean?" Don protested. "What about Tuttle's men, the ones who came after us? Derek Mace – we _know_ he works for Tuttle."

There was a grim note in David's voice. "_Unfortunately, they were all coached. Tuttle must have told them to implicate Montague – every single one of them has confessed, trying to cop a plea, and every one of them said he was hired by Montague. Montague, of course, denies that, says those are Tuttle's men and Tuttle was calling the shots when it came to the attempts on your lives, but he's the lone voice in the storm, and a lawyer would say he's just trying to get out of a murder charge_."

David was silent for a moment, then added. "_It's just like the election fraud case – Tuttle got his man to take the fall for him there, too. No one wants to cross him – they're all afraid to_."

Don felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, and suddenly he felt as though he was being watched. "You're telling me Tuttle – the guy who has been trying to kill us for the past few weeks – is out?"

David's voice brightened a little. "_Relax. We've got him pinned down here. He's under 24-hour watch, and we've got court orders for wire taps and electronic surveillance. If he tries anything, if he so much as tries to give anyone an order, we'll know about it. Plus, now that he's under suspicion, he'd be nuts to try anything – and if he did, we'd know it. You guys don't need to worry. Just focus on getting yourselves back here. _"

"Yeah, okay," said Don, but his voice lacked conviction. How on earth was he going to break this news to Charlie – that he'd been beaten, blinded, and the man behind it was apparently going to get off scot-free? His voice strengthened. "You do that – you get him, David. Don't let him walk."

"_I'll do my best_," said David, but although his tone was sincere, it lacked conviction. "_We've got all the guns out on this one, Don. Even Bob Tompkins is personally involved_."

"All right," said Don wearily. "So, look, I'll let you go. I'll check in tomorrow."

* * *

Joe 'Dog' Soames hunched behind the wheel of his gray Toyota Camry in the parking lot of the hotel, and watched Don Eppes pace back and forth, talking on his cell phone. It would be easy to take him out here; the place was big, the lot packed with cars to hide behind, it was dark and there weren't many people around. Soames could even drive past, act like he was looking for a parking spot – maybe roll his window down like he was going to ask directions, take a quick shot with his silenced gun…

He couldn't, though – he didn't know where the brother was. In a room, somewhere inside a big, populated hotel complex. And if Soames shot the agent here, he'd have to get out in a hurry – he'd never have time to look. And then they'd put a guard on the brother, and he'd never get to him. No, Nardek was right, it was better to wait until they got out in the boondocks somewhere, and take them both out at once – the old man and the woman too, if he had to. He was just going to have to be patient, and wait. Besides, he was being paid by the day, and Nardek had told him that this would probably be his last job for a long while, so the longer he spun this out, the better. As for now, he thought to himself with a grin, he could get a room of his own, spend the night in a real bed, and get up early enough to catch the Eppes brothers when they left. Maybe get a pizza, and a six-pack…

He shot one more look at Don Eppes across the parking lot, and watched as the agent clicked his phone shut, and walked slowly back toward the hotel building. Didn't look happy, that one. Well, he was going to look a lot less happy when Soames got done with him He grinned, turned the key in the ignition, and slowly cruised out of the parking lot.

* * *

Charlie sat on the bed the next morning, and waited for the fog to dissipate from his brain. The painkiller was still making him groggy, and even a quick bath hadn't cleared his head. The experience had been enough to put him out of sorts – he'd had to be helped into the tub by his father, who'd refused to leave, and instead stood by hovering, in case Charlie showed signs of dizziness. The whole incident made Charlie feel as though he were a helpless toddler. Then, when he'd come out with a towel draped around him, Amita had retreated to take her turn in the bathroom, and Alan had helped him into his boxers. Amita had left the days' clothes on the bed, and when Alan had tried to help Charlie with his sweatpants, Charlie had grumbled, "I can do it," and then, when Alan didn't take the hint, growled louder, "I can do it!"

A chastised Alan responded in a slightly hurt tone, "All right, Charlie, you don't need to yell," and retreated from the room, adding, "I'll be back with breakfast in a bit. Don went to get some."

For a moment, Charlie just sat there on the edge of the bed and listened to the sound of the shower. He was free, for a just moment – free, but helpless. He turned his head to look behind him on the bed, trying to see if he could make out his clothes. They were there – he could see them – blurry undefined shapes on the coverlet. He ran a hand over a darker blur. Jeans, and he could feel from the size and weight that they were small – Amita's, without a doubt. Besides, he thought his father had been holding his sweatpants… He turned toward his right – not his first choice because he couldn't see on that side, and had to half-rise and turn all nearly all the way around, but he saw a another dark blob on that side of the bed, and grabbed for it. Missed. Damn depth perception. Grabbed again. Yes, those were his nylon sweatpants. Okay, he could do this.

He managed to get them on, although it was tough using only one arm, and bending over to put his foot in each leg made his eyes hurt, and that made him cranky all over again. He half rose to pull them up with his good hand, then sat back down quickly, before the dizziness could claim him. Then he turned, still seated, and grabbed at something white, hoping it was his undershirt. He held it up in front of him, and decided that it was a white tank – must be his undershirt. He snaked his cast through it and pulled it over his head carefully, as the door clicked open. "Breakfast," came Alan's voice, and Charlie yanked down on the undershirt, as he made out that two figures were coming in through the door.

"Morning, Chuck," said the other figure, with Don's voice.

'Someone must have bought me undershirts that were too small,' thought Charlie as he yanked the T-shirt down around his waist and then sat up, with just a bit more dignity than he'd felt earlier. He'd dressed himself, without help. There was complete silence, and he realized that his father and Don weren't moving – they were just standing there staring at him. "What?"

"I didn't realize you were into sequins, Chuck," Don's voice reverberated with suppressed laughter.

"Huh?"

"I think you might have put Amita's tank top on, by mistake, son," said Alan gently, although as he came forward, Charlie could make out a smile.

He looked down wildly, and clutched at the neckline of what he'd thought was a sleeveless undershirt. Sure enough, he felt the rough texture of embroidery and sequins. "Ah, hell."

He flushed deeply, and flustered, yanked at the shirt with his good hand. "Hold on," said Alan, "let me help you off with that."

"Maybe we should take a picture first," teased Don. "Although I'm not sure about that lacy stuff with the chest hair – it's kinda creepy."

"Shut up," muttered Charlie, trying hard to look offended, but as Alan carefully pulled the traitorous shirt over his head, he sputtered with laughter, and it was echoed by Don, and even Alan was chuckling as he deposited the tank top on the bed, and grabbed Charlie's undershirt.

"What's going on out there?" came Amita's voice from behind the bathroom door.

"We're going, dear," called Alan. "We just dropped off breakfast." He turned to Charlie. "Breakfast is in the sack on the table – egg sandwiches. We'll head out so Amita can change, and then we'll come back for you and the luggage." Charlie had a dim perception of retreating figures, and then the sound of the door closing.

A few moments later, Amita came out, wrapped in a towel, and Charlie got a heady whiff of something that smelled deliciously floral. He tried his hardest to watch as she dropped the towel, and reached for her clothes.

"I'm afraid you don't make much of a peeping Tom," she teased him. "You're more like a staring Charlie."

"I could use some binoculars about now," he shot back, gazing in the vicinity of her chest, and she giggled as she slipped on her tank top.

"What's wrong with this top?" she wondered aloud, her tone changing to vexed. "It feels all stretched out."

Charlie felt his face flush, and turned away to hide an embarrassed grin. "Not a clue," he said. "How about some breakfast?"

* * *

End Chapter 34

**A/N:** Sadly, only three chapters remain. Obviously, our tale will have a few loose ends. Rest assured that _PD Part II: Audrey_ is underway. SG toils on Chapter Twelve as we speak. Serialgal and Fraidy Cat pride themselves in offering you fine (completed) fanfic; months of work goes into these puppies. _Perception Deception_ fairly bursts with brother moments and rich OCs, so if our Dear Readers find themselves in _PD_ withdrawal before we begin to post _Audrey_, feel free to read the entire story again.

We appreciate your loyalty, reviews, and "favorites". Enjoy the rest of the ride. (We expect heavy turbulence, so make sure your seatbacks are in the upright position.)


	35. Showdown at the Oasis

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 35: Showdown at the Oasis**

Three days later, Don caught a look at Charlie in the rearview mirror, and smiled.

It was nearing sunset, they were coming up on Albuquerque, and it wasn't just the sight of familiar territory that made Don smile – he'd spent part of his early career there. No, it was the fact that Charlie was looking out the window; actually _looking_. His vision, while still very blurry, had improved enough that he could try to make out at least some of the landscape. Some of the dizziness was gone, too, the whites of Charlie's eyes were now merely pink, instead of red, and best of all, he seemed to be in a much better mood – he smiled more often, and chatted with Amita and Alan. He was starting to see their faces from further away, he had told them that morning. His vision was improving – slowly, but it _was _improving.

Oh, it hadn't been all good. The second day, they'd gone as far as Tulsa, and that evening, Charlie had been in significant pain, and too tired to eat. The next day, they'd stopped in Amarillo, Texas – it was an hour shorter than the either the first two legs of the trip, and Charlie had seemed better – a little more appetite, a little less tired. Today was another relatively short journey, and they had slept in. Amita had even gone to the hotel pool that morning while Charlie slept, and Don had used the time to catch up on the case with A. D. Wright. His smile faded as he recalled the conversation.

"Morning," he'd said, when Wright had answered the phone. "I thought I'd check in and catch up."

"Don!" Wright had exclaimed. "David told me you'd been calling in. How is it going?"

"It's going," Don replied. "slow, but sure. We're in Amarillo, we'll be heading for Albuquerque in a bit. What's the status on the case?"

"Not what we'd have hoped, I'm afraid," grumbled Wright. "Robin and the prosecutor are fit to be tied. The judge released Audrey Wright on bail. She'll still have to stand trial, but her lawyer is making the case that Jim Montague had convinced her that Robin was a threat – Audrey's saying she was alone with her in the office, Robin threatened her, and she was afraid for her life. She also said that Jim Montague told her to invest money from his business venture under her brother's name, and then put it in the offshore accounts – said he told her any dividends would be tax free that way. She says she had no idea it was stolen money, and that she didn't realize that doing that would violate tax laws. At the worst, she might get a little time for tax fraud. It's all a load of bull, but we've got nothing to prove otherwise."

Don felt his heart drop. "Do you have someone watching Robin?"

"We do, although we don't think there's any danger to her any longer. Their plot is out – none of them have anything to hide anymore; they're all relying on lies and lawyers now. Tuttle, too – he's claiming Montague went behind his back, hacked into his business systems, and corrupted his men with large sums of money."

"I know," said Don morosely, "David told me. So the only one we can put away is Montague."

"That's something, Don," said Wright. "It's huge, in fact. Who knows how long that guy was working behind the façade of his position, how many other crimes he'd committed? In fact, he even used department resources to track the computer Charlie took with him from Idaho – apparently, his men must have gotten the serial number, and Montague was able to track the GPS in it. Plus, even though we can't nail Tuttle and Audrey, it's not like they'll get away with the money."

Don flushed, infused with a sudden rush of guilt. Here he'd thought Tuttle's men finding them in Chicago had been Amita's fault; he'd been so angry with her. In fact, until now, he had still been treating her coolly. He had to face the uncomfortable truth that he'd been blaming her for what happened, because he couldn't face the fact that it had been he who had pulled Charlie into this from the beginning. What had happened to Charlie had been _his_ fault, not Amita's.

Wright was still talking, and Don jerked his mind back to the conversation. "…see you when you get in. Have a safe trip."

"Yeah," said Don absently. "Okay, we will."

He had hung up, feeling oddly unsettled; and decided on the spot that he needed to apologize to Amita at the first opportunity.

He reminded himself of that now as he glanced back in the rearview mirror, and saw Charlie reach for Amita's hand. The truth was, they probably wouldn't be alive now if it weren't for Amita's help, and for her decision to trust Wright, and allow him to send Colby to Chicago. Not to mention she'd been a huge support for Charlie on the trip back, helping him heal both mentally and physically.

Alan snapped his cell phone shut with a sigh. "Well, there's not much in the way of accommodations," he said. "Apparently there's a big rodeo in town – an annual event. I found us a room at a small motor inn on the other side of town – The Oasis."

"I remember that," said Don. "It used to be run by a husband-and-wife team. It's definitely 'no frills,' but it was clean. It's actually a little bit of a hike out of town – that's probably why they had rooms available. We'd better pick up food before we get there; I don't think there's anything else around it."

"Well," mused Alan, "it's getting letting late, anyway – it's not like we'll be doing much there besides sleeping."

* * *

Joe "Dog" Soames glanced at the sleeping prostitute in the seat beside him, and reached for his cell phone, which was vibrating in the cup holder. He flipped it open, and a cheery voice greeted his ear. "Yo, J-Dog. What's happenin' man?"

"Workin'," grunted Soames. "Whaddya want?"

"We're partyin' down at T-Beat's tonight, in case ya' wanna come."

"Can't. Workin'," responded Soames. "I'm on a business trip. I gotta go."

"Okay, man, later."

Soames flipped his cell phone shut, and eyed the woman again, who was still sound asleep. She was in her twenties – she wouldn't be that bad looking, he decided, if she fixed herself up. He'd picked her up in Tulsa at a truck stop; he'd known as they got out west on relatively deserted highways that Don Eppes would probably become aware that Soames' gray Toyota was sticking with them. He figured that if he had a woman with him they'd look like husband and wife on a trip, and even if Eppes picked up on him, he wouldn't think much. Soames knew that truck stop hookers would often travel long distances back and forth if the money was right, and he'd found one willing to go all the way to Albuquerque. Besides, there were fringe benefits; she kept him entertained in the evenings – and sometimes on the road.

Plus he'd been careful. He knew that the Eppes brothers would be on I-44 until they got to Oklahoma City, and then they'd take I-40. It wasn't as if their route was a secret, so he could afford to drive out of sight of them for a while, sometimes pulling ahead, sometimes dropping back. He was sure that he and the hooker just looked like some ordinary people who happened to be traveling west, on the same interstates as the Eppes van.

He was presented with a quandary, however, as the Eppes van kept going through town, and on toward the other side. After four total days of driving, he knew that they would only go for five or six hours at a time, which would stretch into six or seven with all the stops they made. Albuquerque was the next logical stop, and Flagstaff beyond it. After that, they'd have one more leg to get to L.A., and Soames was running out of time. He frowned. Why weren't they stopping in Albuquerque? It was getting late.

The hooker roused herself and blinked out the window. "Where are we?" she mumbled. "Is this Albuquerque? You said you were gonna drop me off at the truck stop."

Soames stalled. "I'm gonna get a hotel, and we're goin' to party a little first," he said. "Then I'll run you over to the truck stop."

She yawned. "Okay."

He dropped well back, but kept the van in sight. He couldn't afford to lose them now; he needed to see where they stopped.

* * *

Soames couldn't have picked a more perfect place. The Oasis was a small one-story brick motel twenty miles out of town, out in the middle of nowhere. The rooms all had exterior doors, and when he went in to the office to check in, he'd found from the room assignment chart lying on the desktop that the Eppes contingent had taken two rooms, as usual. One was an end room and another was two doors down; the room in between was already occupied. He wished he knew who was in which room; from observation the past two nights he knew that the agent and his father took one room, and the younger brother and the woman took the other. If he had a choice, Soames would like to take out the agent first; he was the biggest threat. He pondered the chart for a moment while the motel owner processed his credit card, and then decided that if the agent was being careful, he would select the end room – it was the most private, and therefore the easiest target.

It was odd, Soames thought; at the moment the place looked relatively empty, with few cars, yet almost all of the rooms were marked as occupied on the chart. He signed for his own room, six doors away from the nearest Eppes room, and smiled at the man behind the counter. "Busy around here, huh?"

"Yup, Mr. Edmunds," said the man with a grin, as he handed back his credit card, which had the same name as Soames' fake driver's license. "Rodeo's in town. It ends around midnight every night – that's when most of the guests come back. I'll have to apologize in advance if there's any noise around 1:00 a.m. or so – some of the cowboys from the rodeo are stayin' here, and they whoop it up a little when they come in at night. They usually calm down pretty quick, though."

"No problem," said Soames. "I'm a pretty heavy sleeper. So's my wife."

His plan was starting to gel. He knew now that he should carry out his hit prior to midnight, when most of the guests were gone; there would be less chance of witnesses. He walked back out to the car, and opened the passenger side door for the hooker, as he glanced at his watch. 7:30 p.m. "C'mon," he said. "We'll go inside for awhile, you can get a shower, and I'll run you back in to the truck stop."

The hooker was convenient for another reason – she gave Soames a reason to be gone when the cops arrived. When they came to check the place out, they would find a room registered to Bill Edmunds, and find evidence that a man and a woman had been there, and had sex. They would assume that they had not intended to stay the night – they'd figure out that she was probably a prostitute, and that Soames had just gotten the room for their liaison, and left. The untraceable fake ID would make him tough to find, and if the cops thought he had nothing to do with the shooting and was just there for a visit with a hooker, they wouldn't look very hard.

Soames smiled to himself at his cleverness as they entered the room, shut the door, pushed the hooker up against it, and plastered his body against hers. "Take your shirt off," he rasped.

* * *

Don stretched with a yawn, then started as his cell phone buzzed, and he grabbed it and looked at the number. Colby. He looked at his father, who was nodding in the other double bed as the late evening news droned on, and decided to take the call outside.

Out on the concrete walk that ran along the doorways, he hesitated. He'd been stashing his service weapon under the driver's seat of the van, and had been taking it inside every night, more to keep tabs on it than for the need to use it. There was always the chance that some derelict might decide to break into or steal the van at night, and if that happened, Don didn't want the thief to get his gun as a bonus. He hadn't gotten it out of the car, yet, that evening, and he debated on whether he should do that before he called Colby back. The darkness, the solitude, and the howl of a coyote were the deciding factors – he'd get it out now, rather than on his way back to the room.

He glanced down the front of the building as he retrieved his gun. The place seemed deserted except for a pickup on the far end and a gray Toyota Camry about six doors down. Don knew whom that belonged to; he'd seen it on the road and had noticed the mixed race couple inside. A black man, mid-thirties, and a white woman in her twenties, looked to be husband and wife. He'd seen them leaving together earlier, at around eight when he'd come out to get luggage. Not that he had to watch their backs, according to Wright, but long habit, sharpened by his time on the run the past few weeks, made him aware of his surroundings. As possible threats went, those two seemed low on the probability scale. And anyway, he really didn't need to worry…

He walked quietly around Charlie and Amita's room, on the end of the building, flipping out his cell phone and pulling up Colby's number. "Hey, Granger, what's up?" he asked, as he continued around the building to the back, and the privacy of the deserted outdoor pool area.

* * *

Not quite two minutes later, Joe Soames slipped quietly out of his room, one of his gloved hands inside his jacket, touching his silenced pistol, the other holding a pizza box. He glanced around; there appeared to be no one at the hotel other than the Eppes party and a traveler with a pickup truck down on the far end. Soames had already decided that he would knock on the door at the end, posing as a pizza deliveryman at the wrong address. Hopefully the agent would answer the door; it would be an easy matter to shoot him right there, with the gun camouflaged by the box. He would take out the old man next, and then move back to the other room to take care of the professor and his girlfriend.

* * *

Charlie heard the soft knock at the door and hesitated. Amita was in the shower, and technically, he still wasn't supposed to be walking about without help. He had no doubt that it was his father or Don at the door; just a minute or two ago, he'd heard the van door slam outside their room, and he knew one of them was outside. He wondered why whoever it was hadn't brought his key – Amita had been getting two room keys and giving one of them Don and Alan, for just such a situation as this. Of course, he thought, they were probably being polite; after all, Charlie was feeling better, and who knew what activity be interrupted? He grinned to himself, remembering the sweet, heady moment with Amita in bed just moments before, and rose to answer the door.

It was a small victory in itself that he could even consider that – a few days ago his vision was too poor, and above all, he was too dizzy to navigate a hotel room on his own. In fact, according to doctor's orders, he really wasn't supposed to be up now by himself, but at the moment, he felt like the king of the world. He grinned again, imagining the look on Don's or his father's face when he opened the door, and it was such an appealing thought that he kept going, even when he heard the water shut off in the bathroom.

He made it to the door, no problem, pulled it open, squinted, and paused in surprise. The stranger holding the pizza box paused too, and they stared at each other.

* * *

Joe Soames was taken aback. He'd seen the agent come out of this room earlier in the evening when he'd left to bring the hooker to the truck stop – it was the end room; he _knew_ it was. His mind flipped through the possibilities in an instant, including the most likely one – that the Eppes clan was all visiting together in this one room. He reacted quickly, tossing the pizza box aside and grabbing the startled professor by the collar of his T-shirt. It was an easy task to swing him around; the young man seemed weak and off balance, and Soames put an arm around his neck and the gun to the side of his head and pushed through the door into the room.

The professor emitted a startled gasp, and a female voice came from the direction of the bathroom. "Charlie?"

Soames scanned the room in one quick sweeping glance, and realized he'd been wrong. This room actually belonged to the professor and the woman – the agent must have been visiting when Soames saw him earlier. He was going to have to revise his plan. Shoot the girl, then the professor, pick up his pizza box, and head quickly to the other room to get the agent and the old man.

The bathroom door opened and the woman, wrapped in only a towel, peeked out, just as the professor cried, "Amita, don't!"

She screamed and dodged behind the metal door, the professor pushed hard against him, and Soames' first bullet went wide. He cursed and leveled his gun for another shot, just as the professor reacted again, suddenly and violently. The young man twisted hard in his grip, and knocked at his arm, and this time the shot went right through the front window of the room, and struck the van outside.

* * *

Don paused in his conversation. "Colby, wait a sec." He strained, listening; he could have sworn he'd heard one of the doors just around the front of the building click shut, and then a few seconds later, a muffled woman's scream. It was probably Amita, but whether it was a scream of fear or laughter, he couldn't tell. Probably laughter, she and Charlie had sure seemed to be in a good mood earlier. Hell, it could have even been the television in their room. He started walking toward the front of the building, anyway, half of his attention back on the conversation, and half of it tuned to his surroundings. "Okay, what were you saying?"

He got nearly past the end of the building, when he heard the crack and tinkle of glass, and the unmistakable 'thwup' of a bullet hitting the body of a vehicle, followed by another scream.

* * *

Charlie's attacker twisted with him, and although Charlie had his right arm out, trying to push away the man's arm so he couldn't bring his gun in toward him, he was losing the battle; the man was much stronger than he was. There was no way – _no way_ – that he was going to let that man get to Amita, however, and panic and fury gave him strength. He stuck a foot in between the man's feet, and pushed against him. The man staggered, but regained his balance, and then suddenly released his grip and threw Charlie away from him. Charlie went flying into the side of the bed, and the right side of his face connected with mattress, sending a blinding flash of pain through his right eye. He collapsed helplessly on the ground as the man leveled his gun at him, and then there was a shriek.

Charlie's good eye caught a flash of white, a blur of dark hair going airborne, then Amita was on the man's back. He shoved her off, and she fell, losing her towel in the process, but it had been enough to distract the man. He hadn't heard the 'snick' of the key in the door, and as he turned back to aim the gun at Charlie, who was trying to scramble to his feet, he didn't see it open, either.

"Drop it!" came Don's voice from the doorway, harsh and tight with rage and fear.

Charlie's right eye was throbbing, knife-like pain shooting through it, but somehow he managed to focus. He could take in enough with his left eye to know that the man wasn't dropping his weapon; he was adjusting his aim, and Charlie put his head down and rolled, just as two shots sounded.

* * *

End Chapter 35


	36. Another One?

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 36: Another One?**

Charlie was screaming.

Alan, who had fallen asleep on top of one of the double beds, was jerked to a full and upright position by the sound of Don's service weapon discharging. He stared dumbly at the muted television, his heart pounding, unsure what had awakened him; something on the news? By the time his head cleared enough for him to realize that the news was over, and the television screen was filled by the jack-o-lantern grins of Pat Sajack and Vanna White, his ears had picked up another sound: Charlie was screaming.

Alan didn't stop to put on his shoes. Truth be told, he didn't waste any time on thinking, either. Charlie's screams had a direct connection to his heart; something was wrong with his baby, and that was all he needed to know. In seconds he was across the motel room, jerking open the door. His sock-clad feet thudded on the hot cement sidewalk that separated his room from Charlie's. Some part of his brain registered Don's cell phone, lying in two separate pieces between the rented van and the motel. The door to Charlie's room stood open, and Alan almost lost his footing as he skidded around the corner – but his hand grabbed at the casing, and steadied him.

That turned out to be fortuitous, since the first thing he really registered seeing was Amita's berry-red nipple, peeking out from behind her long…wet?...hair. She kneeled with her bare back to the wall, on the floor just a few feet from the bed. She was rocking a little, cradling Charlie in her lap; his son had both hands clamped over one side of his face, and the most God-awful keening sound that Alan had ever heard seemed to be emitting from his mouth.

At the end of the bed, Don knelt over a complete stranger. For some reason, Don had yanked the spread off the motel bed, and was pressing a corner of it into the stranger's stomach. Alan glanced at his eldest son quickly, to make sure he had the upper hand in whatever altercation was going on, before he half-staggered, half-ran, to Charlie and Amita. Before he hit his own knees, something possessed him to lean down and grab Amita's crumpled towel off the floor. When he arrived at Charlie's side, he thrust the towel at her without a word, speaking instead to his boy. "Son! Charlie, what is it? What's happened?"

Amita was trying to wrap the towel around herself with one hand and hold onto Charlie with the other, but at the sound of Alan's voice, Charlie writhed toward him. _"God!"_ was all he could say before his voice broke off in a whimper of pain. Alan was reaching for Charlie when his son scared the life out of him by apparently passing out, his head falling back onto Amita's lap.

In the sudden silence, Alan clearly heard a growl he almost didn't recognize as Don's voice. "You're gut-shot, you son of a bitch," the voice coldly announced. "Bleeding out; _you know it, too_. You're a dead man. Tell me who the hell sent you after us. Tuttle?"

If Alan had dared to turn his head away from Charlie, he would have seen bubbles of blood coming from the stranger's mouth. There was a definite gurgling sound accompanying the breathless reply. "Mmmm," gasped the assailant, his hands failing at his sides as his eyes slipped closed. "Mmmontague."

* * *

The last three-quarters of an hour had been the longest 45 minutes of Don's life.

It had taken over 15 minutes for the first of two paramedic units to arrive. Years of hosting the rodeo had taught the city that it was wise to keep most on-duty paramedics lurking near the arena, so medical assistance was pretty far from the motel when a frantic Alan dialed 9-1-1. While they waited, Charlie regained consciousness long enough to mumble something about being shot in the eye; Amita brushed back his hair and caught a glimpse of the bloodshot orb, and believed that he was right. She was sobbing silently, her tears dropping onto Charlie's face and mixing with his, when Alan spotted the bullet hole in the drywall just over Charlie's head. Charlie was unconscious again by the time Alan convinced her that the bullet was in the wall, and not Charlie's brain.

Don kept glancing toward the group, fairly aching to join them -- but he was nothing, if not responsible. He did not regret shooting anyone who was trying to harm his brother -- it was a choice between the apparent hit man and Charlie, which was no choice at all -- but the obligation of authority was solidly ingrained in Don. As long as the would-be assassin was alive, first aid must be administered. In addition, Don wasn't convinced by the man's naming of Montague as his employer, deathbed confession or not, as much as he doubted the man's real name was Bill Edmunds. The agent still suspected Tuttle's involvement, and he needed Edmunds - or whatever his real name was - to live long enough to change his statement.

When EMTs finally began to arrive, he was relieved of his duties and started to move toward Charlie; a second set of EMTs arrived soon after the first, however, and asked everyone to clear room around the professor. One of the paramedics who had been first on the scene was female. She and her partner worked on Edmunds until uniformed police officers arrived. The patient had lost a massive amount of blood, evident from the sodden bedspread and stained carpet around his body. The EMTs tried several times, unsuccessfully, to defibrillate him -- but it was obvious to them upon their arrival that he was gone.

Finally, he was declared DOA, and the paramedics turned to see if help was needed with Charlie -- who was awake and whimpering in pain, again. While her partner helped with Charlie, the female EMT stood between Amita and the tableau on the floor, disrupting Amita's line of sight, and spoke gently with her until she managed to persuade the distraught fiancé to take some clothes into the bathroom and get dressed. The EMT made an educated guess, based on what she had seen so far. "Your man will need you at the hospital," she pointed out. "You need to get dressed and pull yourself together, or you'll be no help to him at all."

Amita seemed to digest the words, then lifted her chin slightly and brushed a hand over the tears drying on her cheek. "I'll take care of it," she promised. "I'll take care of _him_." After one last glance in Charlie's direction, she crossed the room to her suitcase, grabbed a handful of mismatched clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Around this time, Don was taken aside by the ranking police officer on the scene, for a preliminary statement. Don had to show his FBI credentials to keep from being arrested; even then, a round-robin of communication was instigated with the officer's CO, Assistant Director Wright in LA, and Albuquerque's district attorney's office. One of the other officers had appeared after a search of Edmunds' room down the hall, and had found another set of ID that appeared to be legitimate, that identified the man as Joe Soames.

There was only room in the ambulance for one person to accompany Charlie to the hospital. When he was strapped to the gurney and ready to transport, Amita was still in the bathroom -- and Don was still dealing with the police. Alan hurried to follow his son's gurney into the ambulance, trusting that Don would get himself and Amita to the hospital as soon as possible. So now, 45 minutes after Soames' wild bullet had plunked into the van -- which was being held as evidence -- Don sat in the back of a police cruiser, a silent Amita beside him, at last en route to the hospital.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and looked at her. Amita was wearing a pair of hot pink capris, an almost fluorescent-orange tank top, one sandal, and one flip-flop. She held her hands in her lap, one wringing the other, as she stared out the window. Don hesitated, then reached out and took one of her small hands into his. "He'll be fine," he tried to assure her. "The bullet is in the wall; he wasn't hit."

She tried to jerk her hand away. "Well, _something_ happened to him," she huffed. "I've never seen Charlie in so much agony...he was passing out from pain!"

Don didn't let go of her hand. "I know," he murmured, then decided that this was as good a time as any; they could both use the distraction. He squeezed her hand. "Amita, I want to apologize."

She glanced at him, confusion apparent on her face. "What?"

"I've been angry with you," Don confessed. "I was afraid Tuttle found us because you didn't honor Charlie's request not to tell anyone where we were." She blushed, and he hurried on. "It's none of my business -- and Charlie sure never seemed to hold a grudge about it; he trusts your judgment. It's just that..." He swallowed, then forged ahead. "Well...all the time we were gone...he missed you so much. He loves you so much, Amita...he trusted you, and trust doesn't come easily for Chuck. I felt like you betrayed him."

A fat tear squeezed out of one of Amita's already-tear-swollen eyes, and Don felt terrible. "I guess I did," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand again. "No, no, Amita -- that's why I'm apologizing. You made a judgment call -- and it turned out to be a good one. If you hadn't trusted Colby and A.D. Wright, Charlie and I would both be dead right now." Another tear followed the first, and Don leaned toward her a little, lowering his voice. "We put you in a terrible position, and you saved our lives. Charlie is right to trust you."

Amita finally squeezed his hand in return. "And you are right to watch out for him," she said. "To feel protective...I'm so glad the two of you had each other's backs, so happy that you've become close. It's what he's always wanted, you know."

Now Don was dangerously close to crying. "He's a keeper," he said, trying to lighten the moment.

Amita smiled. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, he certainly is."

* * *

They found Alan sitting forlornly in a waiting area of the University of New Mexico's hospital trauma center. Don saw him first, and he grabbed Amita's hand and dragged her back to Alan. "Why aren't you with Charlie?" he demanded.

Amita slipped her hand from Don's grasp and leaned to embrace Alan, who had seen them approaching and was now on his feet. "They won't let you back there?" she murmured quietly.

Alan shook his head miserably. "They let me stay for a few minutes..." he began.

Don interrupted him, placing one solid hand on Alan's back and running the other through his hair, which was longer than it had ever been in his life. "I remember," he said. "They kicked me out, back in Chicago; something about a special ophthalmological exam..." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to sound so abrupt."

Alan smiled fondly at his son, and seemed to think for a moment. "I understand," he answered. "Don...you're not on the run, anymore. Are you going to shave, and cut your hair?"

Don's eyes widened and he looked a little surprised. One hand crept to his chin. "Huh," he muttered. "Guess I finally got used to it."

Amita joined the conversation. "I've always loved Charlie's hair on the long side, but last night I almost cut that pony tail off while he was sleeping."

Don and Alan both chuckled. "Let me know if you need some scissors," remarked Alan as he sat, again. He gestured to the empty chairs on either side of him. "Please. I saved your places."

Amita smiled and sank down next to him, taking one of his hands and holding it between her own in her lap. Don sat on the other side, draping his arm around the back of Alan's chair. Alan's eyes anxiously sought out the clock high on the wall; then he turned his head to say something to Amita, noticing for the first time her unusual attire. His gaze traveled all the way to her feet, then back up to her face. "Sweetheart," he finally said gently. "You should have worn the towel."

* * *

Three hours later, Don had been to the triage desk four times, and stepped outside to call Robin twice; the first time had gone to voice mail. He was just about to make his fifth trip to the desk when a scrub-clad man appeared at the entrance to the waiting area. "Family for Charles Eppes?"

All three of them jumped to their feet, practically tripping over each other in their haste to reach the person who had news about Charlie. "We're here!" Alan announced somewhat breathlessly as the distance between them narrowed. "I'm his father; Alan. This is my other son, Don, and this is Amita. She's engaged to Charlie."

The man smiled and nodded toward Amita. "Ah. The lovely Dr. Ramanujan."

Amita felt Alan and Don both looking at her in surprise, but she had no idea what was going on, herself. "Excuse me?" she finally asked.

"I'm Dr. Tylock," the man informed the group. "Charles had the presence of mind to ask about signing a HIPA waiver before we happied him up with morphine; he requested that you be kept in the medical loop, Dr. Ramanujan." He yawned, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Excuse me; I'm working on my 20th hour, here. If you'll all come with me, I'll take us to a private consultation area where we can talk."

Don found himself in the unusual position of not knowing what to think. Charlie was conscious, and clear-headed enough to ask about the waiver; that was good, right? Plus, this doctor did not carry a sense of urgency and bad news with him; definitely good. On the other hand, morphine was involved; that had to be bad, along with the need for a private consultation room. His tennis shoes were soundless in the wide, bright, hall as he followed the group; but his mind was talking so loudly, he probably wouldn't have heard the clack of stilettos.

The doctor turned into a small, tastefully decorated alcove. He sank with a barely repressed exhausted sigh into an overstuffed chair, and waited for the Eppes to follow suit. The room contained three such chairs, as well as a sofa, shoved against the far wall; one straight-back chair; and a small table, upon which rested several magazines, and a box of facial tissue. Dr. Tylock waited for the group to settle, but they each perched on the edge of a chair and leaned slightly toward him; the body language of anxiety -- something he recognized all too easily.

He smiled reassuringly. "Relax," he counseled. "I come bearing glad tidings."

Don had no interest in this guy's quirky personality. "Just spit it out," he ordered. "What happened to Charlie?"

Dr. Tylock met his glare unflinchingly, and continued to smile. "Your brother warned me about you," he remarked. "When I told him I would be coming out to talk to you while the nurse administered some morphine, Charlie told me to watch my back."

Alan's face wreathed in a smile and he leaned back in his chair, laughing out loud. "That's my boy," he announced proudly.

Don's face was darkening with impatience, and Dr. Tylock figured he'd pushed his luck as far as he wanted to. "Your brother will be fine. We'll keep him overnight as a precaution, but I'd say you can continue your journey home tomorrow -- with a few adjustments."

Don and Amita spoke at the same time. "What adjustments?" he asked. "Why was he in so much pain?" Amita wondered.

The doctor straightened a little in his chair and answered them both -- ladies first. "Charles suffered a choroidal detachment," he began.

Don groaned. "More surgery?"

"Not in this case," responded the doctor. "These choroidal detachments are actually a fairly common side effect of the retinal detachment surgery; it could have happened at any time. But, in Charlie's case, a hemorrhagic detachment was caused by trauma. I understand there was a physical struggle of some sort?"

'Yeah," answered Don tightly. "Get on with it."

Alan glanced at his son disapprovingly, but the doctor wasn't fazed at all; he'd dealt with family members a great deal more distraught than this. "Well. With this sort of detachment, the pain is instant and excruciating; far worse than the original retinal detachment and the broken arm put together. There is also an immediate loss of vision; I'm not surprised that your brother thought he'd been shot in the eye."

"Is the loss of vision permanent?" Alan asked.

Dr. Tylock turned his attention to the father. "Not necessarily." The response was not very reassuring, and Alan frowned. The doctor tried again. "Vision impairment is always a possibility, with both his original injury, and this newest one. Frankly, it's doubtful that he will regain all that he's lost...but there are ways to deal with that. I wear reading glasses myself, and I see the telltale indentions around your own nose, Mr. Eppes."

Alan smiled. "Yes...I've worn reading glasses for years." He tried to catch Amita's eye. "If Charlie ends up with glasses, he'll look more like a professor, won't he dear?"

She nodded, and repeated Don's earlier question. "The 'adjustments' you spoke about?"

The doctor continued. "Oh. Yes. The gas bubble in Charlie's right eye was still large enough that when a tiny tear accompanied this latest detachment, there was some leakage of vitreous fluid -- but the bubble served to 'plug the hole', if you will. He's actually very lucky that this happened in his right eye; the bubble in his left eye is much smaller. You may have noticed that he's been able to see out of his left eye better than his right. Anyway, choroidal detachments that don't require surgical intervention heal themselves within a few days...two weeks, at the most." The friendly expression of his face took on some earnestness for the first time. "All of which is not to say that Charlie is home-free; he's had a couple of very serious injuries to that eye. Before he leaves tomorrow, I will refer him to a specialist in LA -- and the staff here will make an appointment for the afternoon of your arrival in three days' time. Don't even go to your homes, first; drive directly to the specialist's office -- he will take Charlie in whenever you arrive. It's imperative to make sure that healing is on-track, and there is no infection. Of course, at the first sign of anything amiss, you must find a hospital immediately."

He waited for nods of understanding before he continued. "Charlie will also leave with four new eye drops and at least one oral medication; corticosteroids, cycloplegics, mydriatics, aqueous suppressants. You'll have to stop frequently so that all medications are administered on time."

"What about the pain?" Don had become silent and brooding, but Alan still had questions.

"Once the gas bubble moved to block the tear, the pain level became much better," said the doctor. "We can't use any anticoagulants like aspirin, so we gave him a hit of the good stuff to help him sleep, tonight." The doctor suddenly laughed. "That may backfire for the whole trauma center, however. When last I saw your son, he was trying to sing Van Halen's _Hot for Teacher_." He smiled directly at Amita, who blushed and looked at her mismatched feet. The doctor followed her gaze and momentarily lost his train of thought.

"Charlie doesn't do morphine very well," chuckled Alan, yanking the physician's attention away from Amita's flip-flop.

"You... I'll... tramadol," Dr. Tylock finally managed. "I'll send along some Ultram. I considered something with codeine, when I read the records faxed by the hospital in Chicago; codeine suppresses coughing, which could be an issue with pneumonia. Ordinarily, we encourage coughing, but I'm reluctant to do that, because of his eyes."

"He's been doing the breathing treatments," Amita offered helpfully.

The doctor nodded. "I could tell; a chest x-ray here looked almost clear. Has he been coughing, much?" Amita glanced at Alan, then, Don, and finally back to the doctor. She shook her head _no_. "Then I think I will go with the tramadol," he said, making up his mind. "It's our hottest new wonder drug on the pain front. Also, we've covered Charlie's right eye with a protective eye cup, and that should be covered with an eye patch 24/7. You can remove both to administer the eye drops, of course -- preferably in a shady location out of direct sunlight -- but be sure to put the eye cup back in place until you see the specialist in LA." He could see that Alan and Amita were beginning to look a little shell-shocked. "A discharge planner will go over everything again in the morning," he assured them.

Don suddenly stood, and spoke for the first time in over five minutes. "I want to see my brother."

Dr. Tylock looked up at him. "I thought that you would all like to spend a few minutes with him, even though he's strung out on happy juice. Just a few minutes; then you all need to get your rest, so you can help him finish the trip home."

Don emitted a sarcastic snicker. "Amita's motel room is a crime scene."

She jumped to her own feet. "I'll stay here," she insisted. "You and Dad can share the driving, tomorrow; I'll be fine." She looked pleadingly at the doctor. "Please?"

Dr. Tylock climbed tiredly to his feet and sighed. "Only because there's a rodeo in town, and I know you won't be able to get another room. Now, if you'll all follow me, I'll take you to Charlie."

Alan stood and started to follow, but Amita's hand on his arm held him back. "Dad?" she whispered.

He smiled at his future daughter-in-law. "Dear?"

She lowered her voice even more. "When you come back in the morning...don't forget my clothes."

* * *

End, Chapter 36


	37. Arrrr

**Perception Deception**

**A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** Please refer to Chapter One

* * *

**Chapter 37: Arrr**

Even though she was anxious to see her fiancé, Amita hung back, and let Don and Alan enter the room first. After all, she would be spending the night in a chair beside Charlie's bed, so she told herself she should be generous about the whole visitation thing. She even managed to take advantage of the situation by heading down to the hospital's cafeteria for some decent coffee.

Charlie had only been settled in a room for a few minutes when his father and brother entered. He was humming -- he seemed to have moved on from _Van Halen_; the closest guess Don could make was that Charlie was channeling _Poison_. The professor was lying on his back in a bed raised to about a 30-degree angle; his casted arm was extended vertically, reaching toward the ceiling, and Charlie's tongue barely protruded from his mouth as he studied his arm with one eye, the other hidden behind a black eye patch. Don glanced at his father, who shrugged, then leaned over the bed's side rail to lightly brush Charlie's forehead with his lips.

"Hey, Buddy," Don greeted from his position slightly behind Alan.

Charlie didn't seem to notice his father, and tried to focus on the source of the voice, instead. "Arrr," he said a little thickly. "Will ye be puttin' dis ting on my leg, ye Salty Dog? Gar."

Don frowned, and glanced toward Charlie's blanket-covered legs. "Does your leg hurt?" he asked. "Which one?"

Charlie's lips twisted unhappily. "Arrr, matey," he responded, "ev'ry pirate needs a peg leg, ye know. Aye." Then he either giggled, or hiccupped, perhaps both at the same time.

Don couldn't stop his slow smile. A wasted Charlie was always fun, and seldom remembered it the next day. "_'Arrr?'_ "

Charlie nodded, so vigorously that Don started to worry about his eye. "It be _'talk like a pirate'_ day," he informed Don. "Mus'be. Got my eye patch."

Alan elbowed a chuckling Don in the ribs. "Son," he said, addressing his youngest. "You seem to be feeling no pain."

Charlie's noticed Alan at last. "Say _'arrr'_," he demanded. "Won' speak to you 'less you say _'arrr'_."

He let his arm fall onto the bed heavily, where it bounced a few times, and Alan winced. "Charl...I mean, _arrr_. Be careful, son!"

Charlie smiled, a little goofily. "Ahoy!" he shouted happily. "Pirates be strong! Ye'll ne'er get me buried booty!"

Don laughed again. "I'll bet you wouldn't say that to Amita. Matey."

Charlie yawned, and closed his eye. "That be a fine wench," he murmured, and Alan made a sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh.

"You probably shouldn't say that, either," he advised.

Charlie's eyelid rose to half-mast. "Ye didn' say _'arrr'_," he pouted.

Alan rolled his eyes. "Arrr," he sighed.

Charlie let his eye shut again and smiled lazily. "Aye, and you're a nice man," he mumbled, already half asleep. "A pence for an old man, o'de sea?"

Don had to turn away from the bed before he laughed so loudly that he awakened the pirate. He nearly pissed his jeans when Alan archly addressed his youngest son. "Aye, me parrot concurs," he said. "Ahoy, ye and yer brother will be the end o'me."

* * *

Charlie stood in front of the bathroom mirror, narrowing his left eye into a squint and contemplating his reflection. "I can't believe you did this," he muttered.

Amita, standing slightly behind him, slipped her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder. She stared steadily into the mirror. "You said I could," she defended herself.

He tilted his head slightly, trying to get a better view around the gas bubble in his eye. "I was under the influence," he reminded her. "My head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton. I hate morphine."

Amita smiled. "Yes, but the rest of us find it very entertaining."

Charlie grinned. "Where did you get your hands on scissors, anyway?"

Amita reached up with one hand and pushed a stray curl behind Charlie's ear. "It's a hospital. Scissors abound. You talked a nurse into washing your hair in one of those bed basins in the middle of the night, and then promised her one thousand dollars if she would get me some scissors so that I could cut off your pony tail." She blinked innocently, both hands now resting lightly on his hips. "Do you not remember _any_ of this?"

Charlie sighed. "I'm not even sure I _believe_ any of this...but I'll never be able to prove otherwise, now, will I?"

Amita laughed briefly, then let one hand stray down the front of his jeans. "Do you really not like it?" she purred. "I thought I did a good job. It's still quite long and luxurious...especially now that it's clean."

Charlie groaned and pushed back into her. "I think we're on another three-day standby," he ground out. "You should probably either stop doing that, or just kill me, and put me out of my misery."

Abruptly, all of her was gone. She no longer touched him with any part of her body. Charlie turned to find her halfway out the bathroom door. "Amita?"

She whirled and faced him -- even with his compromised vision; Charlie could see her dark eyes flash with anger. "Don't even joke about that," she seethed. "_Not ever_." Her voice lost some of its heat when it cracked at the end of her declaration.

Charlie was immediately contrite. "I'm sorry," he whispered, moving toward her. His depth perception was off and he suddenly felt something under his foot; he jerked back a step, and glanced down. "Oh, crap...did I step on you? Are you all right?"

Amita sniffed and dropped her head to his chest, twisting a fistful of his shirt in one hand. "You didn't hurt me," she assured him, then reconsidered. "At least not with your foot."

Charlie lifted his arms to encircle her, and kissed the top of her head. "I'm very sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

She sniffed again. "You...I just don't think you understand what it's been like. Knowing you were in danger, finally getting you back and then almost losing you again...Charlie, I want to spend a long, healthy future with you, and you're not making it easy."

Charlie tightened his embrace. "I'm sorry," he repeated for a third time. "I promise I won't make jokes like that anymore. Wench."

A choked laugh escaped her and she pushed away from Charlie, jerking on his shirt a few times before letting go. "Making me laugh when I'm pissed is not fair either," she huffed, as the hospital room's door swung open to admit a breathless Alan.

He beamed when he saw them both fully clothed and apparently waiting for him. "Good morning, kids!" he greeted. "Sorry I'm late; I had to go rent another van. We need to meet Donny at the police department, if you feel up to making a statement, Charlie. Have you both had breakfast? Has the doctor been by? Amita, how do we contact that discharge planner?"

Amita and Charlie both started laughing. "Dad," counseled his son, "take a breath!"

Alan paused, still beaming at both of them. Suddenly he registered a change in Charlie's appearance, noting the shorter hair. "Thank the Lord," he praised. "Now, if we can just get your brother to shave."

* * *

By the time Charlie was finally released from the hospital, his bag full of meds included four new eye drops, an oral corticosteroid, tramadol, and compazine; Dr. Tylock had decided that a bout of car sickness would not help matters any, so he advised Charlie to take the anti-nausea medication for the remainder of his trip home. Giving his statement at the police station took another hour, so it was almost three in the afternoon before the group managed to leave Albuquerque, with a police escort on their tail, a nod to the recent attack. They would have an escort all the way back to L.A., with officers from different jurisdictions taking turns along the way. Charlie was fading fast, and despite the compazine, soon began turning an alarming shade of green. Don drove them only to San Rafael, New Mexico -- a little over an hour away -- before he pulled into a Motel 6 and called it a day.

A long night's rest accomplished wonders for all of them, and the next day they made it all the way to Flagstaff, Arizona; a thee-and-a-half-hour trip that stretched to almost five, when all the medication stops were factored in. By Day Three, Charlie had his feet back under him. He fought against taking the compazine, claiming that he was experiencing no nausea, and the medication made him sleepy. Alan threatened to grind it up and sneak it into his morning orange juice. Then, when Alan suggested to Don that they stop in Lake Havasu City, after only three hours on the road, Charlie pushed for more traveling. This time both Alan and Amita ganged up on him, and nobody was talking to anybody else by the time Don pulled into a rest area just outside Lake Havasu.

Amita jumped from the van and headed for the ladies' side of the restroom, her head down, her shoulders hunched. Alan mimicked her body language as he strode angrily toward the drinking fountain. Don sighed and looked at Charlie. "Looks like it's just you and me, Buddy." Charlie didn't answer. Don rolled his eyes and pulled the keys from the ignition.

He took his time rounding the vehicle to get to the front passenger door, but he could only stall for so long. Eventually he opened the door and offered a steadying arm to his brother. "You need to take a walk."

Charlie snorted. "Why? We're stopping again in five minutes."

Don pressed his lips into a thin line. "_Because_," he finally answered. "I said so, and I've got the damn badge."

Charlie hung his head for a moment, heaved an impressive sigh, and then climbed out of the van without touching Don. "I'm okay," he murmured. "You don't have to go with me."

Don was just annoyed enough to step back. "Fine," he said shortly.

Charlie seemed a little surprised, but he started off toward the sidewalk. His step was hesitant, and Don followed silently behind. When Charlie misjudged the step up onto the sidewalk, Don was there to grab his elbow and keep him from going down. "I've got'cha," he said quietly.

Charlie let Don help him up onto the sidewalk before he answered. "I'm sorry." His apology seemed genuine. "Everybody's doing everything for me, and I'm being a jerk about it, I know."

Don steered him down the sidewalk, away from the restroom. "We're all tired," he said. "It's been stressful, for everyone -- you, too. We understand that."

Charlie stumbled over a pebble he hadn't seen on the sidewalk and Don's grip on his elbow tightened. "I can't wait until this stupid patch is off my eye," he muttered.

Don felt a shudder ripple through his body, and he swallowed before he spoke. "Charlie, I feel so...blessed."

Charlie stopped walking, and turned to look at Don. "What brought that on?"

Don attempted a half-hearted smile. "I'm just so glad that the doctors in Chicago and Albuquerque were able to deal with your injury. It's all my fault that you got involved in this mess in the first place, and if you had suffered... anything permanent... I'd never forgive myself." He repeated the word, vehemently. "_Never._"

Charlie looked quickly away, before Don could see anything on his face. The evening before, when he had been in the bathroom of his and Amita's motel room in Flagstaff, he had taken off both the eye patch and the protective eye cup to use his eye drops. He had looked around a little first, and then had put the eye patch on over his left eye, curious as to how well his right eye was responding to treatment. He hadn't needed a pain pill in almost two days, and he was hopeful -- until he patched his left eye. He was shocked at how little he could see with his right eye. Immediately his balance was affected, and although he had been standing still, he almost tipped into the bathtub. He had ripped the patch off in near hysteria, and had spent so long in the bathroom that Amita started to worry and knocked on the door. He was still visibly upset when he emerged; he had told Amita that he was experiencing some pain in his eye, taken a pain pill and retreated to bed. Now, remembering the incident, he understood that the experience had made him short-tempered all day -- and he also knew that, if his vision didn't eventually improve in his right eye, he could never tell Don.

He wouldn't tell any of them, if he could help it. Amita and Alan lived with him, and could conceivably catch on; he would swear them to secrecy in they did. He had helped Don in his investigation, and gone on the run with him, willingly, of his own accord. He could never let Don carry the burden, if his injury turned out to be permanent. Don carried enough -- too much -- already. "I guess we're both blessed, then," he responded. "Although none of this was your fault."

Don shrugged as they started walking, again. "Sure it was," he said. "My curiosity dragged you into this -- and I didn't take care of you once we were out there."

"I can take care of myself," Charlie answered, then decided to change the subject. "I might need your protection from Dad and Amita, though. Pretty sure I've alienated them both."

Don laughed. "Tell you what. I'll take them to see the London Bridge, in Lake Havasu City. Technically, we'll be off the road...and it's too early to check into a motel, anyway. We can pretend to be tourists, for awhile. We'll go to the gift shop, and you can buy them presents."

Charlie grinned. "Hope that gift shop has both fine cigars -- and diamonds."

* * *

Amita seemed happy enough with pearls.

Charlie was excited almost beyond measure when he was able to read enough of the small print to be fairly certain he had found the correct birthstone; although he confirmed his choice with Don, before he presented the earrings to his intended.

As for Alan, he proudly wore his _London Bridge_ baseball cap all the way home the next day.

It was almost 2 p.m. when they arrived at the specialist's office in Los Angeles. True to his word, the physician met Charlie in an exam room right away. While Alan and Amita sat in the waiting area, Don stepped outside, leaned against the rented van, and made a phone call.

"Hey," he smiled when Robin accepted his call. "I was afraid you'd be in court or something."

"I took some PTO," she admitted. "I've been out all morning, buying interesting things. Are you in L.A.?"?

His grin became slightly lecherous. "Oh, yeah. We've got Charlie at the eye guy right now."

Her voice took on a sultry note. "How soon can you come over?"

He shifted against the van and tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. "Not soon enough. Did you get everything I asked for?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "Plus," she added coyly, "a few surprises of my own."

Don's breathing began to slow, and deepen; he was slightly surprised when he realized that this was not just because of the promised extracurricular activities in his immediate future. He looked forward to just _being_ with Robin, to lying tangled in her naked limbs and feeling safe...to allowing someone to take care of him, for awhile. "Let me take everybody else to the Craftsman," he said. "I guess I'll keep the van for a few days; I _did_ sort of give away my SUV..."

"It's in police impound," she informed him. "Evidence against the chop shop."

Don was pleased. "Then I'll get her back, eventually?"

There was a silence as Robin paused. "It's...a little...stripped," she finally admitted. Don groaned and she tried to distract him. "Be here before five, and I'll be in the same condition. Risking my life in the kitchen by cooking in the buff."

"Wear an apron," he growled. "I'll help you take it off when I get there."

* * *

Charlie walked slowly into the waiting room, one hand trailing the wall to orient himself, once again sporting dark glasses. He seemed to look toward his family and grinned widely. "Piece of cake," he announced.

Amita and Alan leapt from their chairs and almost tripped over each other in their haste to join him. Don followed more sedately. "Great," he teased. "This close to home, and the two of you are going to end up with concussions and send us all to another hospital."

Charlie laughed, but Alan ignored his oldest. "What did the doctor say?" he demanded.

Charlie kept smiling and grabbed for Amita's hand, connecting on the second try. "Everything is where it should be; I just have to wear dark glasses in the daytime for awhile. Both gas bubbles are still present, so my vision is still compromised, but they could be gone in another week. A few months after that, he'll decide if I need some vision correction."

"Like glasses?" Don asked.

Charlie reoriented his head a little, but it was impossible to tell if he was looking at Don because of the dark glasses. He shrugged. "Or contacts."

Alan breathed a sigh of relief. "Either one is good with me, son. I'm just happy everything is working out."

Don nodded. "Me, too, of course -- I won't even make fun of you." He winked. "Much." His teasing tone disappeared. "I just hope everything is working out as far as prosecuting Tuttle is concerned, as well." The group started making their way toward the parking lot, Charlie still holding Amita's hand. "I'm going to see Robin after I take you all home," Don continued. "I'm sure she'll catch me up on how the case is going."

They reached the van and Alan and Amita started to climb into the back. Don accompanied Charlie to the front passenger side, to offer whatever assistance was needed. "She'll probably catch you up on more than that," Charlie said quietly when the two of them were alone.

Don chuckled and punched Charlie playfully in the arm. "That's none of your business," he said, opening the door for his brother.

Charlie looked directly at him, and Don was sure that Charlie could see him. A bushy eyebrow lifted above the frame of the sunglasses. "Just be careful," advised Charlie. "I hear she has a mean right hook."

* * *

Don reclined in Robin's oversized, whirlpool bathtub. She had felt a little guilty, last year, when she had indulged herself with a bathroom remodel -- but Don tried to lend his support whenever he could.

The two of them had been in the tub for a while, and the water was rapidly cooling, but Don was finally relaxed, his eyes closed as he semi-floated, and he had no intention of moving. When he had arrived at Robin's earlier, she had effectively ruined his mood by catching him up on the case. It looked like Tuttle was going to escape prosecution yet again; there was simply no evidence to counter the many statements made by people who claimed James Montague was responsible for the original fraud, as well as the attempts on Don's and Charlie's lives. Audrey Montague had been relieved of her position with the U.S. Attorney's office -- for concealing a firearm in her office, which was against policy. Robin thought Audrey's close proximity to her husband might be enough to get her disbarred, eventually; Robin had filed a complaint with the California bar, and now Audrey had to prove to that organization that she not only did not participate in the fraud, but that it was unreasonable to assume she should have known about it. If Audrey's credentials were indeed revoked, the action might serve to reopen an official investigation into her activities; but for the moment, Audrey was also in the clear. At least there was enough evidence surrounding James Montague to keep him in prison the rest of his life -- the attempted murders of federal employees guaranteed that much. Still, Don was almost inconsolable, when he thought about the last several weeks of his and Charlie's lives, and how close he had come to losing his brother.

Robin, who had been reclining at the other end of the tub, moved up to straddle Don's legs. He smiled, but didn't open his eyes. The two of them had participated in...an enthusiastic reunion (twice) before adjourning to the tub, so he was pretty sure she wasn't making a move on him (yet). Besides, he heard the clack of metal against porcelain as she reached for an accessory, and knew what was coming next.

First, she applied the thick cream, in mounds as fluffy as the whipped topping into which they had recently dipped fresh strawberries. "It's a good thing you gave me some warning," she teased. "I practiced, last night, with balloons. I confess that I popped a few -- I've never used a straight-edge, before."

Don relaxed his face under the shaving cream, so that no hidden contours would surprise her into filleting him. With his eyes closed, sounds were acute, and he heard the flick of water off the blade as she leaned forward, her naked breasts barely skimming his chest. Her hand was sure, belying her protested inexperience, and she made quick, short movements. She shaved the heaviest part of his beard away first, then pulled back for a moment. He waited, and soon enough, felt her hands on his face, again, as she re-lathered the stubble. When she was finished, she leaned forward once more and worked the razor the other way, slower, taking her time.

There was no speaking. After a time, she sat up, picked up a towel from the edge of the bathtub, and began gently wiping the residue of shaving cream from his face. Don's eyes remained closed until she pulled the towel away.

He lifted a hand from the water to feel the result. When he did, his eyes popped open in surprise. "I expected my face to feel smooth," he said. "It feels...all wrinkly."

Robin laughed and backed off his legs, swimming back to her own end of the tub. "Your fingers are wrinkled, idiot," she responded. "We both look like prunes; we've been in here for an hour."

Don smiled lazily. "Oh," he remarked, holding up his hands and looking at them. He dropped them back into the water, splashing his newly beard-free face, and continued. "I don't care. I want to live here. I haven't had a bath -- worse, I haven't had a bath with you -- in _weeks_."

Robin lifted one of her legs and rested it on top of Don's. "I'm not opposed to that," she said, almost shyly.

Don yawned. "To what?" She seemed to blush, and he sat up straighter in the tub. "I can live in your bathtub?" he winked, pushing a wave of water at her.

"Stop teasing me," she protested, using her toes to play with a sensitive part of his anatomy. "Remember, two can play at that game!"

Don jerked. "I can't believe you just did that!" he roared, lunging forward and grabbing onto both of her legs. He pulled, intent on dragging her to him, as she squealed and grabbed for purchase along the edges of the tub. Her chin dipped into the water, and she came up sputtering.

Don immediately let go of her legs, and shifted, nearly lying on top of her as he maneuvered a hand behind her neck for support. "I'm sorry," he started, sounding sincere and a little frightened. "Are you all right?"

Their faces were inches apart, and Robin answered by arching up for a kiss. It was long, and languid; the first beard-free kiss of the evening. They were both a little breathless when it was over. "I'm perfect, now," she answered. "You're back where you belong, and all's right with the world!"  
**  
**

* * *

End

* * *

**A/N: **_**Or is it?**_

**Coming Soon: Parts 2 and 3 of the Perception Deception ****trilogy****! Will Charlie's vision return to normal? Will he and Amita get hitched without a hitch? What will become of Audrey and Tuttle? Will the end of chapter nine cause an audible reader reaction?  
**


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